


The Bet

by HiKidsDoYouLikeViolence



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Manipulation, Everyone is an ARSEHOLE, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Homophobic Language, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Season/Series 15, Slice of Life, Slown Burn, The reds and blues live in a shitty apartment complex together, Tucker makes a stupid bet, Violence, ambiguous 2000s, etc... - Freeform, that means Ableist Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25341763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiKidsDoYouLikeViolence/pseuds/HiKidsDoYouLikeViolence
Summary: “Three hundred dollars.”“Wait, what?”What starts out as a drunken bet with Church spirals out of control faster than Tucker's sanity and dwindling bank account.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons (side-pair), Felix | Isaac Gates/Locus | Samuel Ortez (side-pair), Franklin Delano Donut/Frank "Doc" DuFresne (past), Franklin Delano Donut/Sarge (side-pair), Junior & Agent Washington (Red vs Blue), Junior & Lavernius Tucker, Kaikaina Grif | Sister/Lavernius Tucker (past), Lavernius Tucker/Agent Washington, Leonard L. Church/Agent Texas | Allison (side-pair), The Meta | Agent Maine/Agent Washington (past)
Comments: 79
Kudos: 116





	1. The Bet

**Author's Note:**

> The first 12 chapters of The Bet were originally posted 2017/18 on an alt account.  
> I will be uploading completely revised versions of these before continuing the story.

**01:43AM  
** **Roosters,  
** **Downtown**

“See? I told you,” slurs Tucker over the music. “There ain’t nobody this sexy motherfucker can’t get. Once you get a piece of The Tucker, it’s all you want.”

“All you want, huh?” snides Church, just as drunk.

“Yeah, that’s right, asshole!” Tucker jabs a finger Church’s way. “So- so you can wipe that bitch-ass smirk off your face.”

“Sure,” says Church. “Sorry that I find it hard to take someone who refers to themselves in the third person seriously.”

“You’re just jealous ‘cause that hot girl just gave _me_ her number ‘stead of you.”

“Like I give a shit, bitch. And like I told you yesterday, me and Tex are back together.” Church downs the dregs of his glass, leans across the bar to get the bartender’s attention.

“What?” scoffs Tucker. He swirls his own glass. The ice cubes inside clink together, unheard over the beat of the dance floor. “The personal trainer chick? Dude, really? I’m like ninety percent sure she’s a lesbian.”

“You say that about any girl that could beat your ass,” points out Church. He scowls as he’s ignored by the barman in favour of a group of giggly girls. “Especially the ones that don’t want to fuck you, dickward.”

“I can get anyone to fuck me,” replies Tucker.

“Alright then,” Church takes out his irritation on Tucker. “If you’re so fucking confident. What about that new fucker that moved in down the hall last month?”

Tucker goes silent. “You know I don’t do crazies,” he eventually shouts over the music.

“Oh, ho, ho,” laughs Church, falls back down onto his stool. He stresses, “Three words for you, jackass: Kaikaina-fucking-Grif.”

“Do not bring Kai into this! We- that was completely different. I was sixteen, dude. Besides, she’s not crazy, she’s _freaky_. Riding-your-dick-whilst-eating-a-hot-dog-freaky.”

Church gives a dead stare. “I did not need to know that.”

“Cat guy’s just sad.”

“I thought there was no one ‘The Tucker’ couldn’t get?”

“Have you maybe thought The Tucker doesn’t want him?”

“Three hundred dollars,” announces Church.

“What?”

“That’s how confident I am you can’t do it,” continues Church. “Let’s make a bet.” He raises a single index finger. “One month. If you can convince him to fuck you by the end of the month, I’ll pay out, if you can't, then you gotta pay up instead.”

“…That’s real fucked up, Church.” Tucker smothers a smirk. “You’re a real fucked up guy. Like fuck I’m gonna agree to that.”

“Oh, come on, Tucker. It’ll be fun. Don’t be a pussy.” 

Tucker raises a shaved eyebrow.

“Look, asshole. You need the money, right?” he pauses, leans in to goad, “Or are you just gonna have to admit you aren’t the big fucking hotshot you think you are?”

The two friends scrutinise one another intensely before Church breaks out into a laugh. Tucker joins in.

Tucker runs a sloppy hand over his face. “Ah, Jesus fuck. _Fine_.” He offers a cocky grin. “But just so you know, you’ve just lost three hundred dollars.”

They shake on it.


	2. A bet's a bet

**30 Days Remaining  
** **05:50AM  
** **Tucker & Junior’s Place,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

Tucker needs to stop drinking with Church. It brings him nothing but trouble and a skull-splitting hangover. 

It’s Saturday, and squinting briefly at Junior’s digital alarm clock, much too early. Not wanting to deal with the world just yet, Tucker attempts to nod back off. Lets his head rest back against the wall.

It is then that both the need to pee like a fire hydrant _and_ drink a gallon of water simultaneously kick into gear. 

He groans, which only makes his head pound harder. Nausea churns up Tucker’s insides that he just knows isn’t gonna look pretty coming out of either end.

He can’t complain. If he wants to keep up this whole poisoning-himself-on-a-fortnightly-basis thing into his twenties, he’s just gonna have to suck it up. Besides, Tucker has become well-acquainted with rough, early mornings since Junior was born.

He stares at the familiarity of his son’s bedroom ceiling. The sunlight from the half open curtains hides the UV paint Tucker had splattered across it the previous month. Tucker’s best attempt at creating a makeshift galaxy for Junior to look at during the night. Another failed plan to try and encourage him to sleep alone in his bed.

Now lucid, the backs of Tucker’s knees make themselves known with a sharp, painful ache. Pins and needles sting down the legs they’re attached to, hung limp over the edge of Junior’s bed frame. Tucker’s shoulders are pressed awkwardly against the headboard, slumped over. He is half-laid, half-sat. 

Tucker swears Junior’s bed shrinks every night they spent in it.

He tries to re-wet a dry mouth and shift into a more comfortable position. 

At Tucker’s movement, Junior, who has so far slept soundly against his father, stirs. 

Tucker freezes. He keeps Junior cradled to his chest, holds his breath in an attempt not to wake him. Junior’s eyelashes flutter. He rubs an eye. 

He re-settles. His breathing returns to its peaceful state and Tucker exhales a long sigh. 

He moves slower this time. Spends a few minutes carefully manoeuvring Junior from his chest onto the mattress. Once he manages to ease into standing he gives the air a little victory punch. He covers up Junior’s little body with his dinosaur duvet, watches him sleep a few more moments.

He would have usually watched longer but Tucker is forced to pad away to take his well-needed piss.

He reaches the toilet in the nick of time, pulling himself from his boxers, bathroom door left open behind him in habit.

He moans in bliss at the relief. 

He’s still in the clothes he wore out. Patting in his sagging back pocket he finds his phone. He needs to become reacquainted with what exactly happened last night. Tucker starts with his Facebook, one-handedly scrolling through his News Feed.

Donut has already uploaded an album. Tucker opens it.

There’s a photo of Donut dancing on the bar. Tucker vaguely remembers the group being kicked out of Chorus shortly after. Another image, this time in the street. Grif is grinning. A thumbs up for the camera, a furious-looking Simmons’ behind him.

Tucker snorts. Likes them both.

He pauses as his mind supplies the memory of Grif throwing up all over Simmons’ new trainers. Where did they go after that? Oh, yeah. Roosters. It was there that that hot redhead had given Tucker her number. And then after that… 

Tucker scrolls down a little further and is met with a photo of him and Church. They are sat together on Roosters’ bar stools. Church’s eyes are bloodshot, Tucker has an arm draped around his shoulder.

Oh, no.

They haven’t made another bet, have they?

Tucker’s thumb hits the home button, then contacts, then Church’s number, cock still in hand. 

When it goes to voicemail, Tucker tries again. And again after that. And again after that. 

Until, “This better be fucking important or I’m coming over there to strangle you with your intestines.”

Tucker smirks. “And a good morning to you, too, sunshine.”

“What the fuck do you want, Tucker?”

Tucker’s smile recedes slightly. “Did we make a bet last night?”

The line goes silent.

“Hello?” says Tucker, thinking he may have been hung up on.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Church explodes down the line.

Tucker moves the speaker away from his ear. 

“You woke me up at five in the fucking morning to ask if we made a bet!?”

Tucker brings the phone back. “It’s more like six,” he corrects.

“Well it doesn’t really fucking matter, does it?” yells Church. “Either way I’m hungover and pissed off!”

“We did, didn’t we?” Tucker groans. “It’s about me fucking cat guy down the hall, isn’t it? I don’t wanna fuck cat guy, Church. He’s a freak.”

“...I’m coming over.”

“Wait, Church, no- Junior’s in bed and I don’t-”

Church hangs up.

“Oh, you motherfucker,” declares Tucker. He sighs at the tiled wall above the toilet tank in defeat. It looks like the mould is starting to grow back again in the grot. He’d have to ask Sarge about it.

Tucker puts his phone back in his pocket and his dick back in his boxers. 

He stops by the sink cabinet to tap a couple aspirin into his hand, takes them with a swing of water from the faucet. 

He’s no sooner exiting the bathroom then there’s a banging at the door.

Tucker ties his dreadlocks up out his face as he jogs towards the racket.

When he peers out, he keeps the chain locked. He grins. “Baby, if you’re gonna fist my door, at least do it gently.”

Church looks grumpy, which isn’t anything new, although this time his seething is pretty reasonable. 

He does not look his best: his eyes red-rimmed, drool stuck in his untamed beard, the hair on his head an unidentifiable black mess. He’s thrown on a dressing gown but hasn’t bothered to tie it up, the fabric wide open to reveal sweaty chest hair and unflattering briefs.

"Dude, seriously, let me inside before I unload in your face." Church scowls.

"Bow-chicka-bow-wow."

"Tucker!"

“Oh, come on, that was way too easy,” argues Tucker, although he does as Church requests and shuts the door so he can undo the latch.

He lets him inside.

“Make me some fucking coffee, asshole.” Church flops down on Tucker’s couch, makes a noise of pain when he lands on Junior’s plastic dinosaurs. He sits up, begins to throw the toys at the carpet. “Stupid kid!”

“Keep your voice down!” hisses Tucker. “Junior didn’t sleep at all last night until I came in.”

“Maybe he’d sleep alone if you told him no every once in a while,” says Church. 

Tucker squats to pick up each of the dinosaurs as they are violently discarded, sets them on the coffee table.

“You treat him like he’s a fucking two-year-old. How old is he again this month?” Church throws the final dino at Tucker, who catches it. 

“Shut up,” snaps Tucker. “How I raise my son has got nothing to do with you, Church. If I wanted this bullshit I would have called my mother.”

Church falls back again once the cushions are toy-free. “Has she stopped threatening you with social services yet?”

Tucker doesn’t grant a reply and stalks away to the kitchen. 

He flicks on the coffee machine and drinks a couple of glasses of water as he waits for it to start up. He adds milk to his once it’s ready, leaves Church’s black.

Back, Tucker kicks Church’s legs out the way with his foot and sits down. 

Church settles his ankles back into Tucker’s lap. He holds out his hands for his cup and takes a long, steady gulp of the frothy black liquid. He sets it on the floor since the coffee table is just out of his reach.

Tucker doesn’t drink his just yet, cups the warm mug.

Church tucks his arms behind his head. “A bet’s a bet if you’re thinking about trying to pussy out.”

"Of course, I'm not pussying out!" exclaims Tucker, caught off guard. He muses, "Just wondering if we could reconsider the target is all..."

"Nope,” answers Church, delighted. “We agreed. It has to be cat guy, otherwise pay up."

Tucker lets out a long, drawn out groan at the ceiling. He can’t wait for the aspirin to kick in. "Alright, alright, crazy cat guy it is." He sounded defeated. "Fuck, how am I even supposed to do this?"

"Oh, I know. How about you just show him _The Tucker_? You’re a sexy motherfucker, right? I thought you said it’d be easy!" A little spit flies from Church’s mouth.

“Junior is in bed!” hushes Tucker.

"Some friendly advice, Tuck," Church speaks over him. "I'd start sooner rather than later. He doesn’t exactly seem like the type to bang on a first date."

“Oh, God, you’re right.” Tucker drinks from his coffee. “How do I even start up a conversation? He’s gotta be in his thirties at least.”

“You’ll figure something out.” Church drapes an arm over his eyes. “Otherwise that money’s gonna be buying me a new microwave. Caboose put in some popcorn last night and set it for thirty minutes instead of thirty seconds. The fucking idiot. He’s lucky he didn’t burn down my entire kitchen.”

Tucker snorts.

“Yeah, ha-ha-fucking-ha,” seeths Church. “Let’s see if you’d be laughing if he’d set the entire apartment building on fire. God damn retard.”

“Hey, man. Chill out, alright? It is kinda funny. Besides, it’s a good thing - without a microwave you’ll actually have to make something other than TV dinners.”

“Nah, just thought I could use yours instead.”

“Get fucked. I’m not having you stink out the place with your shitty microwave meals.”

“You have any better ideas, jackass?”

“Yeah,” says Tucker. “Stay the fuck out of my kitchen.”

“Fuck you,” grumbles Church, sits up a little to reach for his coffee.

They drift into silence. 

Church sips his cup of bitterness every so often, Tucker strains to keep his eyes open.

“I’m going for a shower,” decides Tucker after a while. 

“Alright,” says Church.

Tucker moves Church’s legs, tips back the dregs of his mug. “And after that,” He sets the empty cup on the coffee table. “I’m gonna go find crazy cat guy, invite him to Starbucks and turn on the Tucker charm.”

“Oh, yeah? And how’re you gonna do that?”

“I’ll just go knock on his door and introduce myself,” replies Tucker like it’s obvious.

Church gives a look.

“Okay… maybe that is a little forward.”

“Maybe.”

“What about if I wait around in the lobby for him instead? He probably hasn’t checked his mail yet.” Tucker wrangles his phone from his pocket for the time.

“I’m not giving you hints,” says Church. “I’ve got my money riding on your failure, remember?”

Tucker hums in faux-acknowledgement, too caught up in deciding how to introduce himself.

 _“Hey, man.”?_ No, that’s too casual.

 _“So, I noticed you wear a lot of cat hair.”?_ Definitely offensive.

 _“What’s cooking, hot stuff?”?_ ...Is he even the type of guy who’d be flattered by a chat up line like that?

“Watch Junior,” says Tucker. “I need to grab some groceries whilst I’m out.”

Church sits up. “You’re joking. I am going back to bed.”

“Use my bed then,” calls back Tucker, already halfway into the bathroom. “Or get Caboose to do it!”

Tucker shuts the door. He leans over the edge of the bath to twist on the shower head. Cold water spurts out. The boiler in the basement of the complex needs a little while to get working.

Tucker really needs to get out of these clothes, he’s been in them for a good 48-hours by this point. He lifts the fabric of his shirt to get a good sniff, is met with a mix of hard liquor and sweat. He wrinkles his nose and pulls it off over his head, catches sight of himself in the mirror. 

Despite how run down he feels, he thinks he still looks pretty good. He flashes himself a wink.

He has this.

**07:15AM  
** **The Lobby,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

He does not have this.

Tucker fidgets in the draughty lobby, keeps himself there by going through a mental checklist of everything he’s going to do with the money at the end of this nonsense. There’s a big part of him pushing to return upstairs, to tell Church that he’s changed his mind, that the bet’s off. 

But he doesn’t.

Three hundred dollars is three hundred dollars. 

Tucker is strapped for cash as it is. Refuses to let Church waste his hard-earned money on a microwave when he has a perfectly good oven and stove to use.

Three hundred dollars means everything when you’re a guy like Tucker. It’s the rent he owes Sarge. It’s a decent birthday present for Junior. It’s a day out at the zoo. Savings for a rainy day. Money for a speech therapist…

Who’s he kidding? 

Tucker knows himself better than that. He isn’t the type to put sums of money, especially big sums of money from a drunken bet, to good use. It’s going to be wasted on a night out’s celebration, or on a new video game for him and Junior to play together, or some other frivolous thing Tucker won’t stop to think about if they really need it in the moment.

He loiters in front of the apartments’ mailboxes, feeling every bit like the idiot he is.

His eyes search for the new placard, for the one he doesn’t recognise. He finds it. There it is in fading sharpie.

“David Washington,” reads Tucker.

 _David_. Even his name is boring. Tucker sure is going to have to drag himself down for this.

He has so many different scenarios flying through his mind. 

Despite Washington seeming like the type to swing Tucker’s way, what if the guy turns out to be a raging homophobe instead? 

Okay, maybe not the raging part, he seemed much too mellow for that kind of violent outburst in public. If anything, cat guy falls into the serial killer category; solitary, keeps to himself and out of sight.

Great, Tucker’s gonna be murdered by a homophobic serial killer.

Why couldn’t Church have bet him to sleep with that smoking hot redheaded chick with the double-Ds who’d introduced herself to him last night? 

Cat guy is gonna either slit Tucker’s throat or bore him to death with his extensive stamp collection. Tucker isn’t sure which he’d prefer.

“Son,” a gruff voice interrupts. “Your lollygagging is starting to put this old man on edge.”

Tucker turns around to face the reception window’s open shutter. Gaze penetrating, the broad, greying man inside takes another drag from his cigarette, blows it out through his nostrils. 

He scratches idly at an arm, the army tattoos there hazed by thick, grey hairs that match the colour of the hair on his chest, neck and face.

Sarge. Tucker’s landlord.

“I’m not lollygagging,” replies Tucker, “ _but_ I can tell you what she’ll be gagging on tonight. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.” 

Social etiquette is not Tucker’s strong point.

“That…” Sarge taps the end of his cigarette off into the ashtray on his desk. “does not ease my concerns.”

“Look, man, I don’t get why you care. It’s not like I’m doing anything-”

Sarge scoffs. “You think I’m gonna trust someone like you alone in my hallway?”

“Look… it’s important, dude. Trust me. It’s like, life or death shit, way over your head,” argues Tucker.

“Life or death?! Son, I was head of my unit in the war! You don’t know life or death until you’re in the trenches, drenched in the blood of your enemies.”

Tucker resists an eyeroll. “I really don’t have time for this right now.”

“Nonsense, there’s always time for a war story!”

“Leave me alone or I’ll tell Donut you’re smoking again.”

Sarge makes a flustered noise. “How dare you-”

A phone rings behind him cutting their conversation short.

Tucker smiles. 

Sarge narrows his eyes back, crushes out his cigarette. “Got my eye on you, boy.”

He slides the grate shut and Tucker slumps with relief.

He hears rattling behind him. Tucker turns towards the noise gormlessly and sees that the man he has been waiting on all morning (ten minutes) has appeared and is in the middle of unlocking his mailbox.

David Washington has his back to Tucker. His messy hair is in need of cover up, greying roots visible through the knots of blonde. Did he ever change out of that grey hoodie? He seems like the kind of guy to have a wardrobe full of the same thing, white cat furs clinging to the fabric of the worn cotton. 

The only things about him that had ever vaguely captured Tucker’s attention in the past were the scars on his face and the thousands of freckles that decorated his skin, disappearing abruptly where they met his clothes.

Tucker gets closer. At a glance it appears like he’s had a rough night, but Tucker is aware at this point that it’s just the dude’s natural expression.

Huh. Maybe Tucker has been doing him a disservice. It turns out he’s not as ugly as Tucker had been working him up to be upstairs in his head. Apart from the freckles, he’s pretty plain-looking, but Tucker wouldn’t say he’s _unattractive_. Just disheveled. In need of a good clean-up.

He still isn’t his type though. Tucker likes his men wild and ready to party, whilst this guy, one glance, and Tucker can tell this guy is dull. The kind of guy that wears tighty whities and waits for the green light before crossing the street. He’s a single guy in his thirties living alone with a bunch of cats, for fuck’s sake. Tucker is definitely onto something here.

He almost walks away before he reminds himself of the three hundred dollars that’s on the table.

Tucker moves in, pretends the man is some hottie he’s chatting up at Chorus or Valhalla.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” begins Tucker. “I don’t think I’ve had a chance to introduce myself yet. I’m Tucker, I live down the hall.”

The man’s tired, grey eyes do a double take, as if they can’t believe they’re being spoken to. They look Tucker up and down. “Uh…” 

Tucker smiles. “You’re David, right?”

“…Yes,” responds David, uncomfortable.

There’s an awkward lull.

Tucker clears his throat and continues his forced smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Uh-huh.” David goes back to getting his mailbox open.

Tucker shoves his hands in his pockets, nods to the compartment. “Washington, huh? Never seen anyone named after a state before - you know, other than George - but I kinda just assumed he was the one who named the state after himself, the narcissistic piece of shit.” He laughs awkwardly. “You’re not related to him, right? Dude, if you are, you must be loaded as fuck. Why you living in this shit hole? I’d be in the Mediterranean fucking babes, y’know?”

“…Uh-huh.”

“Hey. You mind if I call you Wash? We all call ourselves by our last names ‘round here. Something that stuck from high school.”

Washington freezes.

“Wash seems a lot easier to say. Washington’s kind of a mouthful. Ha, a mouthful. I’d like a mouthful of you, if you know what I mean. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

Wash doesn’t respond.

When it becomes clear he isn’t expanding, the atmosphere turns heavy and even awkwarder.

Tucker winces. “So… yeah.”

The silence is interrupted every so often by the scrape of rust as David jiggles his key inside the lock. It remains un-cooperative like every other aging piece of crap in the apartment complex.

“The locks are a bitch, huh?” Tucker makes an attempt at smoothing things over. “So, me and my buddies saw you moved in a couple of weeks ago and-“

“Four months,” interrupts Washington curtly.

“What?” Tucker has been derailed from his script again.

“I’ve lived here-” Wash gets the door open, grabs his bills and relocks it in a fluid motion- “four months. Excuse me.” 

He makes a beeline for the stairs.

“Wait, wait, wait- Wash! You haven’t even heard what I’m offering, dude.” Tucker quickly jogs after Washington. 

He’s ignored.

Tucker catches the stranger’s bicep before he can ascend, eyes widening at the firmness there. “Hey-”

“Don’t touch me.” Wash’s tone is venomous. He jerks his arm away, shoots a glare over his shoulder.

Tucker gapes. He isn’t sure what to say, unable to even find a smartass comment to save the situation.

Wash uses Tucker’s speechlessness to his advantage in his escape. He takes the stairs two at a time and disappears around the corner.

Tucker stares after him. “What an asshole,” he mumbles. 

His Plan A had failed in a miserable, uncharacteristic fashion, a Plan B never even a possibility for Tucker to consider.

He groans. This is going to be a whole lot harder than he originally thought.

**07:31AM** **  
****Outside Agent Washington’s Apartment,** **  
****BloodGulch Apartments**

Upstairs, Wash fumbles with his keys. His mouth is dry, anxiety from the confrontation that had just happened expanding in his chest. He fails to slot his key into the door for the second time. It drops to the fraying carpet, the abundance of novelty keyrings causing a clatter.

Wash stares down at the jumble of metal cats and faded pictures clasped in plastic. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths.

A little calmer, he bends down to pick them up. Lets himself inside. Locks the door behind him and slides on his dead bolt as if Tucker is some kind of threat to him.

He sets his mail down and lets out a strained laugh.

Here he is, an ex-Special Ops being intimidated by some stupid kid. 

It’s pathetically hilarious.

He slides down onto the floor, puts his head between his knees. 

He shakes his head. He refuses to allow this to trigger a flashback. A panic attack. It’s stupid. Embarrassing. He closed his eyes, concentrates on the rise and fall of his ribcage just like Dr Grey had taught him.

" _Mew_."

Even with his eyes closed, Wash knows who's bothering him. He swallows dry, asks, “What is it, Sky?”

“Mew,” meows Skyler again. She rubs her head up against Washington’s legs, follows with her body. 

A purr rumbles from inside her chest and the sound is soothing to Wash’s ears. Her touch, too. He reaches out shaky fingertips so he can run them through her fur.

“I just fed you,” he tells her, already less panicked, “so I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

Skyler climbs up and pads clawless front paws on Wash’s knees. She peers over the tops of them, meows.

Wash cracks a smile. He lifts his hand to her face and she pushes into it, firm, her eyes squinting.

A few more pets and Washington is able to fully breathe again. He lowers his knees so she can climb into his lap. Both his hands slide into her fur. 

“That guy was pretty weird, huh, Sky?” he murmurs to her. “I think he was trying to make fun of me.” 

Wash’s fingers begin to pull gently at a matted piece of fur. 

“I wonder where his kid was,” he thinks aloud.

Skyler meows.

Wash gets up once he’s managed to wrestle out the matt, much to Sky’s dismay who has just gotten settled.

He flicks on his treadmill and decides he’ll spend the next hour or so running. The pull-up bar after that. Maybe some crunches. He always feels better once he has that familiar burn of overexertion in his chest.

It’s a good distraction from over-thinking.

**08:43AM** ****  
**Tucker & Junior’s Place,** **  
****BloodGulch Apartments**

“Da-dee!” 

Tucker is greeted by his favourite little face peering over the top of the sofa. Junior comes barrelling towards him, arms outstretched, his breakfast running out from the corners of his grin.

“Hey, little man!” cheers Tucker. He drops his shopping bags in favour of scooping him up. 

Caboose offers a wave from the couch. “Hello, Tucker.”

“Hey, man,” says Tucker, surprised to see him. Church really is a lazy fucker. His attention returns to his son. “Sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up. You and Caboose have fun without me?”

Junior nods. His little fingers grab a handful of Tucker’s dreads. He wordlessly presses his face up against Tucker’s neck, smearing the milk from his Lucky Charms all over his skin.

Tucker doesn’t mind, cuddles the boy back warmly.

“Morning cartoons are the best,” announces Caboose, slurps the remainder of his cereal. 

“They sure are,” agrees Tucker. 

He toes off his shoes and collapses onto the sofa just as Caboose stands up. 

“I am now going to walk Sheila and see my best friend, Church,” informs Caboose. “Sheila has an appointment with the animal doctor today. Doctor Doc is going to look inside her again.”

“She’ll be okay,” says Tucker. He gives the gentle giant a half-smile, reshifts Junior on his lap. “Thanks for watching him.”

Caboose nods thoughtfully. “I like Junior. He’s nice. Unlike _somebody.”_ He sniffs and gives Tucker a pointed look.

Tucker guesses Caboose is still salty about not being invited out last night, ignores it. “Good. Junior likes you, too. Right, little dude?”

Junior finally unglues himself from Tucker’s neck to nod, smiling Caboose’s way.

As usual, he’s the perfect aid for diffusing the situation because Caboose smiles back and carefully pats Junior’s head 

“Goodbye, Junior,” says Caboose once he’s at Tucker’s door. “Goodbye, Tucker.”

Junior waves over the sofa and Tucker cranes his neck around. “Yeah. Thanks again, Caboose.”

He seriously did not expect Church to actually send Caboose over in his place. 

Caboose is a pain in his ass but Tucker appreciates the man is always willing to watch Junior last minute.

Caboose’s smile is dopey in return, friendly. “It’s okay, Tucker. Thank-you for the breakfast-donuts.”

Tucker’s smile drops. “You ate my donuts?”

“Goodbye, Tucker,” repeats Caboose, leaves without looking back.

Tucker sighs in mild irritation at the door shuts. 

He raises an eyebrow at his son. “ _You_ didn’t happen to eat any donuts, did you, Junior?”

Junior stares owlishly. He gives a dramatic shake of his head from side to side.

Tucker smirks. That’s a yes, then. “We have got to start working on your lying skills, little dude.”


	3. MISSING CAT: REWARD AVAILABLE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please turn creator's skin 'on' if you're using a mobile browser so the images fit properly x

**29 Days Remaining  
** **10:45AM  
** **Agent Washington’s Apartment,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

“Ari?” calls out Wash. 

He’s laid flat against the carpet, head under his bed. He isn’t sure what he expects to find. It isn’t like she’d been there the last time and she still isn’t there now.

He sits up, runs a hand through his hair. Frets further.

Across the room, Epsilon stares, curled up in an open draw. He’s unimpressed as usual. His torn ear twitches and he settles back down between the socks, goes back to sleep.

Wash has already checked all of Ari’s usual hiding places: the washing basket, behind the couch, the cupboard next to the fridge. He’s even tried to lure her out with food, a foolproof plan to get all of their attention, but only Skyler and Epsilon had made an appearance. The only other thing he could think of is that she must have gotten out whilst he was airing the apartment earlier.

“Shit.” Wash’s hands curl to fists, fighting the way his chest threatens to tighten.

He’s not panicking. This isn’t the time to panic. Wash needs to stay calm and rational to find her ASAP. It isn’t like she could have gotten very far. She’s a house cat. They stay close.

Oh, God. She _is_ a house cat. 

House cats are docile. They trust too easily. They don’t have road sense. 

BloodGulch Apartments is directly outside a main road. Ari’s going to be hit by a car and it’s all going to be Wash’s fault.

His mind helpfully supplies the image of her body, mangled up beyond repair in his arms.

He shakes the thought away but another takes its place.

What if some psychopath has gotten hold of her?

Washington has seen what people are capable of doing to each other, even over the petty and the unimportant. Just for fun. All it would take is the wrong person to pick her up and they’d- she’d-

He focuses on his breathing, deliberately gives up control of it. He loosely counts each inhale, each exhale, until he’s calm again.

He’s overreacting. This isn’t a war zone. She’s fine. He’ll have her back home in no time.

Wash pulls himself up off the floor, brushes himself down. It does absolutely nothing to remove the cat hairs but Wash doesn’t notice.

He quickly double-checks all of the windows just in case Skyler or Epsilon decide today is the day they also want to perform _The Great Escape,_ pulls on his hoodie and stuffs Ari’s favourite treats into its pocket. 

Both Sky and Ari love the tiny fish biscuits but Epsilon isn’t a fan. Despite once being a stray, he’s turned out notoriously fussy. Puts his nose up at anything that isn’t tinned tuna or cooked chicken.

Wash leaves and does a quick sweep of the apartment halls first. 

Both floors are empty as expected. Nothing but grime underfoot, worn front doors and cracked drywall. He’s rarely set foot on the top floor, his landlord’s floor, but checks anyway, just in case. 

Wash spends barely a minute up there. He finds the blood red of the paintwork a little intense, much prefers the relaxed blue of his own hallway. There’s also a heated argument coming from one of the apartments that puts his teeth on edge. These days he’ll do just about anything to avoid conflict, including being witness to it.

He descends to the lobby, past the mailboxes and the reception grate, through the back door. Sarge had told him at the viewing that there’s a community garden through it but Wash has never bothered to go and see (all of his windows face opposite directions.)

It’s bigger than he anticipated and Wash is surprised by how well-cared for it is, especially in comparison to the building and the area.

There’s a shed tucked away in a corner and the lawn is freshly mown, raised bedding is cobbled together around the outside with mismatched planks of wood. There’s a gravel pathway that winds to a high, spiked gate and Washington can hear the hubbub of the street behind the tall brick fence that surrounds the hidden garden. 

Wash clocks the shirtless man. He’s on his knees at the end of the garden, his back to him. He’s shifting dirt from one of the raised beds onto a plastic sheet and pays Wash no mind.

Washington gets back on task. Ari likes to hide herself in secluded, cramped spaces so he walks around the outskirts of the garden and searches the narrow gaps between the plank-bedding and the brick wall.

It’s the middle of summer and the sun is already beating down hard. Washington begins to sweat in the constricting cotton of his hoodie, ignoring his discomfort as he continues in his search.

“Ari,” Wash tries into the gap behind the shed.

Nothing.

On the other side of the garden, the stranger is still digging up earth.

Wash’s eyes flit everywhere but the tanned skin of his naked back. He should probably ask him if he’s seen anything but the thought of engaging makes Wash uncomfortable. 

He swallows. He needs to do this. For Ari. 

“Uh, hey?”

The man just keeps on digging.

“Hello?” Wash repeats, louder.

The man keeps going, doesn’t reply.

Washington almost retreats but the possibility he might have seen Ari keeps him there. 

He moves closer. “Excuse me?”

The stranger stops what he’s doing as Wash comes into his field of view. He breaks out into a bright, inviting smile. “Oh! Morning!” he shouts.

Wash is taken aback before he then recognises who it is. Franklin. Washington’s upstairs neighbor and go-to cashier at the nearby convenience store. “Good morning,” he returns formally.

“What? Oh, sorry! One sec! I must have knocked my hearing aid!” Franklin is boisterous and friendly as he fiddles with the device in his ear.

“No problem.” Wash tries not to look, but it’s difficult not to. It’s been a long time since Washington has been intimate with a man and Franklin’s body is a pleasing sight. Slender but solid, the muscles in his arms and chest defined and coloured from the sun in a way that only comes from organic, hard work.

Franklin smiles. “It’s nice to see you, neighbour!” His volume drops but remains rambunctious. “Finally got tired of being hauled up in that apartment of yours, huh? Sarge was starting to think you were down there plotting something, but I told him, you know, I told him that you’re way too nice to be doing anything like that.” He wipes sweat from his brow.

Wash nods along distractedly, familiar with his chatter. “Have-”

“Look at these blueberry bushes, David. Aren’t my new babies just gorgeous? Someone was clearing out their garden at work and I got them for free. Ain’t that great? Been digging all morning, and let me tell you, it is _exhausting_ , but it’s totally gonna be worth it when we get to taste them. I'm gonna make everyone blueberry pie by the end of the summer!" Franklin’s grin stays shining bright. "Do you like blueberries, David? I never saw you buy any at the store but then again they’re so darn expensive, right?”

"...Blueberries are okay," Wash replies once he is given the chance to get a word in. "But, uh, Franklin-”

“Call me Donut! Only my parents call me Franklin.”

“Donut?”

“Yeah. It’s my last name. _Franklin_ makes me sound, like, a bajillion-years-old, don’t you think?”

Wash pauses. Lavernius Tucker had said something similar yesterday, hadn’t he? What is it with these people? Outside of Sarge, none of them seem military. 

“…Right. Okay, then. Donut,” he says, “have you seen a cat around here?”

Donut taps at a pillowy bottom lip with his finger. He shakes his head. “Nope. Nothing out here but me and my bushes.”

Wash deflates. “Oh. Would you mind- is it alright if you keep an eye out? My cat, she escaped through my window and I can’t find her.”

Donut is expressive. "Oh, gosh. One of your kitties is missing? Which one?"

"Ari,” says Wash. “She's about this big. A, uh, domestic semi-long haired tabby. If you know what that is. She has a little white patch under her chin if that, uh, helps. She’s never been outside before so I’m a little worried.” It’s the most Wash has spoken in months outside of therapy.

"Gosh, that's just awful!" Donut’s tone is immediately flooded with such emotion that, for a brief moment, Wash assumes he is being sarcastic. "I'll help you find her. My bushes can wait. Lemmie just wash my hands."

"I, uh." Help makes Washington uncomfortable but in this situation it feels necessary. “Thanks.”

Donut wipes dirty hands on his jeans, pulls on a discarded shirt. His bleached hair is damp with sweat. A black, stretchy headband keeps it off his forehead. "Do you have a picture of her you could send me? I’ll post it on our Facebook group and see if anyone's seen her."

"Face... book... group...?"

They walk together back across the garden.

"Yeah. The apartment's Facebook group." 

When Wash's face remains blank, Donut gasps. 

"You haven't been added to the group?!” he exclaims. “No wonder you haven't been coming to any events! I just thought you were shy or something!" 

Wash is lost as to what the hell Donut is talking about.

“Good thing we got this all sorted now,” Donut says brightly. He removes the hosepipe from the side of the building and twists on the cold blast of the tap. He gets most of the mud scrubbed off, but bits remain under his nails and in the creases of his palms.

Donut squeaks the tap shut, wipes his hands semi-dry on his shirt. He leans over to reach for a backpack by the door. After a little rummaging he straightens, takes gulps of overpriced mineral water with one hand, taps his pincode into his phone with the other.

Washington stands to habitual attention as he waits.

"It's Washington, right? Gosh, I feel so awful for not adding you before," gushs Donut. He takes another greedy drink from his bottle.

Wash looks at him. "How do you know my-"

"Your name? Perks of sleeping with the landlord." Donut gives a wink.

Wash blinks. He is unable to decipher whether or not he is joking, too anxious to laugh.

"I can't seem to find you, hun,” says Donut. “Maybe I'm spelling something wrong? Here you type it." He tries to pass his phone over.

Wash lowers it gently. "I don't have, uh, face book? and I don't have time for this. I need to find my cat."

"This will help find her, I promise!" says Donut. "Think of it like putting up a lost poster, only quicker. Just send me her picture and I'll do the rest."

Wash hesitates. He supposes he should take any opportunity offered to aid his search. "Alright. Okay. Give me a second."

Washington pulls out his own phone, flips it open. He navigates the clunky buttons to his pictures, noisily clicks through the different images of his cats until he finds a single shot of Ari. He offers the phone out to Donut.

"I don't really know how to send it to you," he admits. "I know it’s a pretty old phone."

"Don’t you worry, Sarge's mobile is older than this, and if I can figure out that ol’ hunk of junk I'm sure this little cutie'll be a piece of cake." Donut is optimistic.

Wash nods, eyes scouring over the garden one last time. "I'm gonna go look around the area. I'll leave my phone with you until I come back. Okay?”

"Of course. We’ll find her, don’t worry, Wash."

 _Wash._ He frowns as he turns to go back through the lobby, out onto the street. He can’t decide whether this last-name schtick is upsetting or comforting. It feels like a mix between the two.

Outside, he silently sulks up and down the broken pavement, ignores the helplessness that looms over him, heavier and heavier. He tries his best not to look too suspicious as he checks under cars, insides dumpsters, behind alleyways. Sweat slicks the back of his neck and under his arms.

A man bumps into Wash whilst he’s checking the stairwell of a basement apartment.

“Watch it!” he yells at Wash, doesn’t wait for a response as he carries on going.

Washington briefly fantasises grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and throwing him down the stairs he’d just been peering into. He presses his nails into his palm instead, leaves behind little, crescent moons.

He keeps looking.

**11:55AM** **  
****Tucker & Junior’s Place,** **  
****BloodGulch Apartments**

Junior wishes he had a pet dinosaur.

He ponders the line-art of a pterodactyl, taking his time deciding whether the beast would look better in blue or green. A pet pterodactyl. That would be cool. Or maybe a tyrannosaurus-rex. Or a velociraptor. Definitely something carnivorous and scary.

They wouldn’t be scary to Junior though, of course. They’d be his friend and eat all the mean people at his school. Hopefully they’d eat his teacher first. She’s the meanest.

After a little more deliberation, he goes with blue, his daddy’s favourite colour. 

Junior carefully scribbles in the pterodactyl’s face, stretched out on his bed, on his tummy.

Uncle Grif had bought him the colouring book for his birthday (he is five now, a big boy) and he’s almost finished it, the pages filled with different dinosaurs and prehistoric creatures. Junior likes it when his daddy flips through the book with him, tells Junior each of their names and what they ate. Junior knows all of the information already, but he enjoys the sound of Tucker’s voice, the security of being pressed close, so he never complains.

A noise comes from his bedroom window and he looks up.

Junior gasps aloud. 

He stares and big, green eyes stare back.

“Da-dee! Da-dee! Da-dee!” shrieks Junior. He jumps to his feet atop his mattress, spilling crayons onto the floor.

Tucker is at the doorway in a flash, panting. His eyes search the scene, frantic, arms slick with suds from the sink. “Junior?!”

Junior makes unformed noises, grabby hands.

Tucker bounds over. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Junior shakes his head, points toward the window. He squeals in unadulterated excitement and continues to bounce in place.

“What? Wha-” Tucker’s eyes shift and he finally understands. 

He puffs out a relieved laugh. It’s a cat. A god damn fucking cat. 

The thing meows and paws at the glass.

A grin stretches across Junior’s mouth, ear-to-ear. He climbs down using Tucker’s arm, tries to let it inside.

“Junior, no. No.” Tucker is quick to wipe his hands on his jeans, put the latch back into place. “It probably has fleas. Or worms. Or rabies. Or some other nasty shit we don’t know about.”

Junior hits him with the big, baby brown eyes, pouts.

“It’ll be fine,” Tucker resists them. “Cats like living outside.”

The cat meows again and rubs its face up against the window. The sound of its purr is audible through the glass.

“Da-dee.” Junior grabs a handful of Tucker’s shirt, tugs. His eyes continue their pleading routine.

“No,” replies Tucker.

“Daaa-deee.” More puppy-eyes.

Tucker sighs. 

He gets a better look at the cat. It’s uncollared but it seems friendly enough. Too clean to have been a street cat very long, if it even _was_ a street cat. He’s honestly kind of impressed it had managed to climb up the fire escape in the first place.

It isn’t like Tucker can afford to keep it even if he does give in and let it in. What’s he supposed to do with it? Maybe he could palm it off on David Washington. Now that’s a thought. A good way to patch up yesterday’s disaster. 

“Da-dee?” Junior interrupts Tucker’s thoughts.

“Alright, alright!” exclaims Tucker. “Fine! But only for today. You listening, little dude? We’re not keeping it.”

Junior beams. He’s incoherent, barely able to contain himself as Tucker undoes the latch, pushes open the window.

The cat slips in and lands on the carpet, immediately rubs itself up against Junior’s legs. 

Junior squeals. He takes two gentle handfuls of its fur, flashes Tucker another bright smile when it purrs responsively.

“You’re lucky you’re a cute kid,” says Tucker, ruffles his hair. “Come sit with me in the kitchen. You can colour in there.”

Junior automatically does as he’s told. He releases the cat, grabs his dinosaur book and begins picking up the fallen crayons.

“Good boy.” Tucker helps him. He doesn’t want to leave Junior alone with the strange animal despite how harmless it seems. 

Some days it’s hard for Tucker to believe just how calm and obedient Junior has turned out considering his shared parentage.

Between him and Kai, Tucker had expected a rough ride in bringing him up. A childhood filled with tantrums and stubbornness and broken toys. It couldn’t be further from his son’s temperament. Maybe things would get a little more difficult in his teenage years, but for now Tucker’s only real concerns are Junior’s speech disorder and his separation anxiety.

The cat follows them as they leave for the kitchen together, Junior’s little hand in Tucker’s.

Tucker gets Junior settled at the kitchen table, returns to the dishes. He likes to think he’s getting better at keeping things clean (ignoring that the hefty pile of plates span back three days.)

“You wanna go to the park later?” he asks, glances over his shoulder. 

Junior has already migrated onto the floor, hands on the cat, not listening.

Cute, he thinks. Tucker smiles and leaves him to it. 

He goes back to scrubbing at dried food and lets his mind wander. During the mundane Tucker tends to imagine all the things he’d much rather be doing.

Today’s fantasy is a wild party, ambiguously abroad, someplace hot and loud. Tucker’s drinking a margarita and there’s skull-splitting music blasting from club speakers. He sidles up to the bar to chat up some gorgeous hunk with washboard abs. 

His name is Jose. He’s spanish. Yes, he’ll come back with Tucker to his hotel room.

Tucker sets another plate onto the dish rack. He’s in the middle of deciding where to kiss Jose first when his daydream is interrupted.

“Da-dee,” Junior speaks up. “Doh yew wike Say-buh?”

Tucker’s heart stops in his throat, is dragged back to reality in an instant. It’s the most Junior has spoken in months and it takes Tucker a moment to adjust.

Junior waits patiently, watching his father.

“Saber?” manages Tucker, mouth dry as he tries to stay casual. “…Like a lightsaber?”

Junior giggles. He shakes his head, responding confidently, “Noh, Da-dee. Wike a tie-gah.”

“A tiger?” Tucker repeats, grins at the sound of his son’s laughter. 

Junior nods enthusiastically.

Tucker wipes his hands off on a tea towel. He crouches down to Junior’s level. “I don’t understand, little man.”

Junior points to the cat. “He is say-buh.”

“Saber? Oh, _Sabre._ Like a sabre-toothed tiger, right?”

Junior nods in confirmation.

“That’s his name?”

Junior nods again, brighter.

Tucker smiles. He tries to encourage Junior to expand. “What made you pick that name?”

Junior shrugs, returns to petting the purring mass.

Tucker feels a pang of frustration. “...I like it. It’s super cool. Just like you.”

Junior looks up to give his dad another smile.

Tucker returns it. 

On the floor, ‘Sabre’ yowls softly for more attention.

Junior obliges dutifully.

Tucker smooths back Junior’s heavy coils. “If you’re done colouring, we can watch a film if you want.”

Junior lights up at the offer. He jumps up and runs off. Sabre starts at the sudden movement but remains flopped on the linoleum. 

Tucker watches his son go. He raises an eyebrow at the cat. “Sabre, huh?”

He offers a worn hand and it head-butts it.

“Don’t get too comfortable. You hear me? You’re not staying here.”

It meows.

Tucker scritches it’s head. He leaves the washing up for later and heads for the living room. The cat follows.

Rounding the corner, Junior is bouncing on his heels by the TV. He’s already made his choice, holding out the VHS with both hands for Tucker to see. 

_Jurassic Park._

Tucker holds in the exasperated sigh. If he has to watch Alan Grant save Hammond’s grandchildren one more time he thinks he might actually go insane. Still, for Junior, he gives a smile. “Alright, bud. Jurassic Park it is. You gonna put it in for me?”

Junior nods fast. He ejects _A_ _Nightmare on Elm Street_ , sets it atop the growing pile on the VCR and pushes in his chosen film. Junior hits the rewind button four times like his Daddy has shown him, rushes to sit on the sofa.

Tucker sits beside him with the remote, waits for the tape to reach the beginning.

The cat tries to hop up after them.

“Nuh-uh, get off,” Tucker tells it, pushes it down.

It tries again.

“No, dude,” says Tucker, firmer.

Beside him, Junior tugs his shirt.

“What?”

Junior’s puppy-eyes make their re-appearance.

“Look, J, if it has fleas-”

“Da-dee…”

The cat ends up on the sofa.

Junior cuddles up to Tucker once the movie starts. Migrates on his lap where Tucker can cuddle him best. The cat makes itself at home, sprawls out like the gloatful thing it is. Junior watches the screen, animated as if the whole thing is brand new to him.

Tucker watches his son fondly for a while. Eventually he unlocks his phone in boredom.

No messages but opening up Facebook tells him there’s a new post on their apartment’s group. He opens it.

Tucker taps the link, compares it to the cat beside them. It’s a spitting image. 

Huh. So it’s Washington’s cat. This works out a lot better than Tucker’s original plan of hoping Wash is in the market for a new one.

He opens his messages, scrolls to Donut’s icon.

Tucker huffs a laugh. 

“Donut’s coming over,” he tells Junior, immediately gains his full attention. He expands, “Sabre belongs to the guy down the hall, so we gotta give him back.”

Excitement over Donut’s visit shifts to disappointment. He looks away.

“Okay?” Tucker pats his back.

Junior nods reluctantly.

“Sorry, little dude,” soothes Tucker. “Maybe he’ll let us visit Sabre if you ask him.”

Junior lightens at the idea. He nods, reaches over to pat Ari’s head.

Tucker kisses his forehead. He supposes he should probably feel a little guilty using his son for his own ends, but he doesn’t. Compartmentalisation is great like that.

**12:15PM  
** **The Community Garden,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

“I found her!” yells Donut across the garden as Wash returns. He bounces down the path, waving Wash’s phone at him the whole way. He skirts to a stop, grins up at him. “Well _technically_ Tucker found her, but he wouldn’t have known who the cat belonged to if I hadn’t made the post.”

Wash disregards all information other than ‘found her.’ He barks, none too kindly, “Where is she?”

Something unreadable flashes in Donut's eyes at the harshness of his tone. 

It’s so fast that Washington is unable to process what it is exactly, other than it being negative. He gets a hold of himself. "I’m sorry-"

"She’s at Tucker’s,” smooths over Donut. “Come on. We can go get her together."

Wash is sheepish. “...Okay. Thanks.”

Donut smiles. "Have you met Tucker yet?”

Wash nods once, says no more.

“He’s made that bad of an impression, huh?” Donut reads Washington’s expression with ease. “I know he can come off as a bit of a jerk but I promise he’s nice really.”

Donut heads inside, Wash on his heels.

"He just doesn't think before he opens his mouth. It all just comes spurting out, you know what I mean?" 

Wash offers an unsure, half-smile. His thoughts on whether Donut is aware of his own inappropriateness are inconclusive.

“And I know what you’re thinking: _‘Donut, why should I believe you?’_ "

Wash hadn’t. They both start up the stairs.

“And I’ll tell you why. Me and Tucker go way back. High school back.” Donut shivers. “Dark times, Wash, dark times. Those pictures are staying buried until the day I _die._ You know what I’d say to fourteen-year-old me if I could?” 

Donut doesn’t wait for an answer. 

“I’d say, ‘Franklin, I know you wanna look good, honey, and you do, but there is such a thing as too much fake tan and, God, too much hairspray.’ Hey, do you remember stirrup leggings? They were, like, my entire wardrobe. I used to bedazzle them. Wow, _bedazzling,_ ain’t that another throwback? Man, now I just wanna bedazzle something!” he laughs. “Maybe I could do the bathroom curtains…”

They have arrived at Tucker’s door, Donut already in the process of knocking as his train of thought finally derails.

No one answers.

Donut knocks harder, impatient. “Tucker! Let us in!”

“Both at once?” Comes from inside, muffled, swiftly followed with an obnoxious, “Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

Washington grimaces. 

The lock clicks, the door opens and there he is. Tucker. He has the same stupid, cocky grin on his stupid, cocky face from yesterday. “Hey, baby,” come the stupid, cocky words. “Long time no see.”

Wash’s frown deepens and he crosses his arms defensively, feels his cheeks are burning.

Tucker wiggles his eyebrows. 

Donut glances between them, lost. He breaks the ice. "Oh, you big flirt!” He addresses Tucker directly, pushes forward and throws his arms around him. “Is that any way to talk in front of company?”

Tucker laughs and returns the hug warmly. “I’m not talking to you - I’m talking to Mr. Tall-and-Handsome over here.” He winks at Wash over Donut’s shoulder. 

Wash scowls at him.

“Tall and handsome?” repeats Donut. “Sure, that sounds like David.”

Wash’s cheeks burn hotter in a different way, confused.

The two friends break apart.

“Gee, dude,” says Tucker. “You reek. Ever heard of something called a shower?”

“You like the way I stink.” Donut taps Tucker’s nose.

Wash feels a flurry of impatience. He finds his voice, “You have Ari?”

“Your cat? Yeah, we have it. Junior saw it out on the fire escape and let it in.”

“Her,” corrects Washington.

Tucker snorts, which only riles Wash up further. “Yeah, we have _her_ -”

“Then that’s that mystery solved!” interrupts Donut sunnily. “Gee, don’t cha just love it when everything works out?“ He brushes past Tucker to let himself inside, looks back. “Come on in, Wash!”

Tucker seems to realise his own rudeness, moves aside. His tone shifts into something more accommodating, less teasing, “Shit, sorry. Yeah, dude, come in.”

Wash is further baffled by Tucker’s switch. He doesn’t feel comfortable going inside but feels like he has no other option. Both Tucker and Donut are incredibly strange, albeit varyingly, and he’s having a hard time understanding their angles.

“I was actually gonna knock on your door about it - _her_ \- anyway,” says Tucker as Wash steps over the threshold. “Since cats seem to be… you know, your thing.”

Washington doesn’t grant a reply, has mixed feelings.

He looks around. A nicer way of describing the place would be _well-lived in_ , but to Wash it’s distinctively _messy_. The carpet looks in need of a good vacuum. Toys are scattered here and there. Washing hangs over radiators and the back of chairs. Dust lines every available surface. 

Laziness, thinks Wash.

A sofa sits in the centre of the room. Worn blankets are draped over the back, no doubt an attempt at hiding its poor state. Beyond it, a television is playing some Blockbuster Washington doesn’t immediately recognise.

“Where’s my little pumpkin?” says Donut.

A little boy Wash recognises as Tucker’s son appears from behind the sofa. He’s not as dark-skinned as Tucker is but they bear a striking resemblance. His hair is twirled into a different style than it had been the last time Wash had seen him.

“There he is!” coos Donut. “Come here, sugarplum.”

The boy hurries towards Donut with open arms, is picked up and smooched and twirled around before he’s set back down.

Wash doesn’t know where to put his hands, feels the intruder. 

“Junior. This is our friend, Wash,” Donut introduces them. “Wash, this is Tucker’s son, Junior.”

“Nice to meet you.” Washington gives an awkward smile. 

The child takes notice of him only to hide his face against Donut’s pant leg.

Donut laughs and pets his hair. “Don’t mind him, Wash. He’s just shy,” he reassures. His attention goes downward again. “Junior, Wash is here to pick up his kitty. Aren’t you gonna say hi?”

Junior is silent. Scoots around Donut so he’s more hidden.

Donut smiles patiently. “How about a wave instead? Can you give him a wave?”

“It’s alright if he doesn’t wanna,” says Tucker as he comes up behind them.

Wash is, admittedly, a little surprised by Tucker’s addition. He seems like the type to push his child out into the spotlight, not let them hide away. 

“It’s fine.” Wash waves off the fuss. “If you could just give me back my cat and…”

Ari hops down from the sofa into view. 

“Ari,” says Wash in relief. “There you are.”

She catches sight of Wash as he does her, meows. Wash bobs down and offers a hand. Ari leisurely strolls over, her usual, docile self as she accepts it. He picks her up and Ari settles familiarly against him.

“Thanks for finding her,” he tells Tucker begrudgingly.

“Wasn’t me, man,” says Tucker. “Thank Junior, not me.”

Wash pauses. He glances at the little figure who has stayed hidden behind Donut’s legs. He says awkwardly, “Thanks for finding my cat, kid.”

It’s silent for a few moments, but Junior eventually peers around Donut at Wash, only to hide away again.

“Yeah, you were a great help. Such a good boy,” enthuses Donut.

Tucker steps in to pick his son up. “Hell yeah, he is. Who’s my badass little pimp? Gimme five, little dude!”

Junior high fives his father’s open palm, smiling at all the positive attention, a little more at ease.

There’s a lull and Wash shifts. “…Well. I should get going.”

Donut cuts in, “Going? What are you talking about? We only just got here! We haven’t even celebrated your reunion! This calls for cocktails.”

Washington’s eyebrows shoot up. “Uh...”

“Can’t do a lot, dude,” says Tucker like it's already been decided. “I had to sell my blender last week, but I have some vodka and peach schnapps top shelf if you want ‘em.”

“We’ll go to mine then!” Donut slips away, reappears with said bottles, passes one to Tucker. “Okay, team, let’s go.”

Wash doesn’t like the idea. “I, uh, I think it’s best if I take Ari home.”

“Nonsense. She can come with us.” Donut is dead set. He hooks an arm around Wash’s, leans into him like they’re old friends. 

Wash tries to lean away but Donut’s hold is solid. “I-”

“Now, now. I won’t take no as an answer. It’ll be no fun without you!”

Wash sighs. He understands, immediately and with certainty, that his presence will have no effect on the amount of fun Donut is having, instead gets the intense vibe that Donut is just trying to involve him.

Why? Wash isn’t sure. He feels transparent, like Franklin can see the loneliness radiating from his entire being. Strangely though, he doesn’t feel pitied. Donut’s expression reads as nothing but genuine and warm.

His instinct is to reject the invitation, but most of Wash’s instincts have been falling short recently, so he knows better than to take them at face value. Dr. Grey had encouraged him that it’s time to take a few steps outside his comfort zone. Maybe this is a natural progression. The time to begin adjusting to spending time with people again. Hell, it is being handed to him on a silver platter after all, practically _forced_ on him.

But then there’s the problem of Tucker. A man who seems hell bent on humiliating Wash, on making him as uncomfortable as possible. Or is that just the paranoia talking?

Wash holds the electric of Donut’s gaze unsurely. 

Donut, who has taken time out of his morning just to help him. Donut, with his enthusiasm and big smile. Donut, who’s welcoming Wash, a practical stranger, into his home. Maybe if someone with as much sensitivity as Donut is friends with someone like Tucker, he isn’t that bad after all.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s all been a misunderstanding. There’s a real possibility Wash has just been reading the room wrong. It could turn out that Tucker’s just an eccentric guy.

“…Alright,” caves Wash. “I guess I can come for a little while, but-”

“Yay!” cheers Donut in victory. He takes Wash’s hand, drags them out into the hall. “To my boudoir!”

Wash catches himself almost smiling at how ridiculous this all is. He readjusts his hold on Ari as he’s pulled outside.

Tucker stares after them as they disappear behind the corner.

This is great. The _best._ He could just kiss Franklin; this has worked out so perfectly. Just like that and Tucker’s got an afternoon to work on cat guy. With alcohol. The perfect fast track to get to know someone. 

“Junior,” he says. “Is there anything you wanna bring to Donut’s with us?”

Junior shakes his head but Tucker decides to fetch something anyway. He pauses the movie and hauls Junior, his colouring book and the bottle of _Archers_ out the front door.

Tucker positively beams as they follow after their three hundred dollar prize.

A cocktail sounds really good right about now.  
  



	4. Special Agent Babysitter

**28 Days Remaining  
** **08:28AM  
** **Tucker & Junior’s Place,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

“Eat, eat, eat. Come on, dude, we’re gonna be late,” rushes Tucker, the time on his lockscreen making him anxious. 

Tucker should have known drinking yesterday was going to be a mistake. Much like with Church, it's never just a couple of drinks with Donut, and even after David Washington had slunk off after a measly hour, Tucker and Junior had stayed at Donut’s place late into the evening.

He storms into the living room, Junior’s schoolbag in hand. He tosses his phone onto the sofa so he can tie his dreads up off his face and get situated. If they aren’t out the door in the next five minutes, Junior isn’t going to make it in time for his first lesson, and more importantly, Tucker is going to be late for work. Again.

He grabs Junior's reading homework from the coffee table to stuff inside the rucksack. He had wasted ten minutes earlier trying to find the fucking thing in the mess of Junior’s room.

It’s one of Junior's favourite books, _Dinotrux_ (who are, obviously, half-truck, half-dinosaur creatures that had inhabited the Earth before man) and Junior had chosen it as his reading the last four weeks in a row. Tucker really needs to buy him his own copy.

He returns to the kitchen, stressed. 

“Junior,” he says, riddled with impatience he still isn't eating. “Food. Mouth. _Now._ ” 

He begins to pack his lunch.

Junior doesn't look up, rather stares down at the mushy mess of his Lucky Charms. He pushes it around with his spoon.

Kitchen cupboards and draws slam in Tucker’s hurry. He hastily puts together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, adds to it a bag of chips, a chocolate bar and an apple Junior isn't going to eat, drops everything inside a paper bag. He folds the top and shoves it in beside Junior’s books. 

He flings open the fridge. "Apple or orange juice?"

Ignored, Tucker sighs.

He takes out the two juice boxes and holds them out under Junior’s nose.

“Apple or orange?” he repeats, giving his son the option of a non-verbal response.

Junior turns away his head.

Tucker’s patience wanes. "Dude, come on. Pick one or I'm gonna have to do it for you."

Junior just pokes milk-soaked marshmallows around.

"Fine.” Tucker pushes down his frustration. “Orange juice it is, then."

He drops the box into the backpack and zips it up, leaves the apple juice discarded on the counter. 

“Time to put your shoes on.”

Junior gets down from the kitchen table, but instead of going to the shoe rack, he stands directly in front of Tucker and dramatically rubs at his stomach.

"You are so not sick, little dude,” Tucker tells him. “You were fine all weekend.”

Junior makes a soft noise of discomfort, sticks a thumb in his mouth.

Tucker ignores the routine and carries Junior's bag to the door for him. “Come on,” he calls behind. “It’s time to go to school.”

Junior stays where he is in the kitchen. 

Panic is beginning to expand in his chest. He doesn't want to go to school. He wants to stay at home with his daddy and his dinosaurs. 

He isn't feigning his sickness. It’s real. Just the thought of the kids in his class making fun of him, of Mrs. Chorus making him go outside to play at recess, it churns his stomach. He looks around for a solution, but all he sees is his uneaten breakfast, his plastic dinosaurs, the cluttered table and counters.

When he used to get this nervous, he would always hide in the kitchen cupboards, but he knows from experience that he is too much of a big boy to fit inside now.

Junior settles for the next best thing. He grabs his velociraptor from beside his spoon and moves onto his hands and knees, crawls under their table. He drags all the chairs in after himself, brings his knees up to his chest, hides his face.

Tucker is calling his name from the other room but he doesn’t go to him.

He hugs his legs closer, rolls the velociraptor against his cheek.

Tucker re-enters with a pair of Junior's shoes hanging off his fingers. He glances about in brief confusion before he catches sight of his son under the kitchen table.

“We don’t have time for this,” scolds Tucker. “Come here so I can put your shoes on.”

Junior doesn't move.

Tucker’s voice rose. “ _Now,_ Junior.”

Junior remains under the table.

Tucker stamps inside and slams Junior’s shoes onto the countertop. The movement disturbs a pile of plates and they begin to slide apart. Tucker moves fast to steady them, but he is unable to catch them all, a few crashing to the floor, breaking apart.

Junior flinches, first at the slam of his shoes and then at the smash of the plates.

“Fuck!” shouts Tucker at the mess.

Junior flinches again. His daddy rarely throws things about or yells in anger, so it's scary for him to witness.

“Fuck my life. Fuck this. Fuck all this shit, what the fuck? Stupid fucking plates. What the fuck? _What the fuck?_ ” 

Junior feels very anxious.

Tucker picks up the bigger pieces and throws them into the sink. He crouches down and sticks his head under the table, uses the edge to support himself.

Junior peers out.

“Come on. Get out,” says Tucker.

Junior hides his face.

"Stop it!” snaps Tucker. “You are going to school. You cannot miss another day. Get out from under this table.” 

Junior stays motionless.

Tucker can't afford to miss another day. He’s walking a fine line as it is. If he loses this job they are fucked. Tucker-being-forced-to-beg-his-mom-for-help-with-his-tail-tucked-between-his-legs levels of fucked. And-then-the-cold-bitch-will-absolutely-use-it-as-a-weapon-to-bag-Junior's-custody levels of _COMPLETELY FUCKED_.

"Little man, come on,” he tries pleading.

It doesn't work.

“We can go for ice-cream later?” he tries bribing.

It doesn’t work.

 _“Junior_ ,” he tries scolding.

It doesn’t work.

Tucker yanks out a chair, grabs Junior's arm. “We are leaving.”

Junior pulls himself out of the loose hold easily, scoots backward.

Tucker’s grip on the edge of the table tightens, beyond frustration, exhausted and hungover. 

"Junior!” he screams. "Get your ass out from under that table right now, or see what happens, I swear to fucking God!"

Junior promptly explodes into tears. They come fast and heavy, his breaths so laboured that his little chest struggles to keep up.

The sight extinguishers Tucker's anger like a bucket of ice water. The realisation of what he’d just done, said, causes him to physically recoil. He wavers. He can’t believe he's just directly caused his son such distraught. He’s supposed to be the one protecting him, and now he’s shouting in his face, the face of a five-year-old child.

He feels like his dad.

"Hey, hey, little dude,” he croaks once he has recovered enough to speak.

Junior just wails. The plastic of his dinosaur’s tail is pressed so hard against his cheek it’s leaving a mark. Big globs of tears track streams, his little face screwed up tight.

“Baby, don’t cry,” says Tucker, trying not to cry himself.

Junior only cries louder, shoulders shaking up and down. 

“Don’t cry, baby,” repeats Tucker over his sobs, voice tight with his own upset. “I'm sorry. Daddy's sorry, okay? He’s just tired. He’s just really, really tired." 

Tucker pushes another chair out of the way so that he could squeeze underneath.

"Come here.” He offers out his arms to Junior, body awkwardly bunched up. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to go to school. I’m so sorry, baby. You want a hug? I'm sorry."

Junior throws himself at his father, sobs still coming hard.

Tucker's head smacks up against the wood at Junior’s tackle but he doesn't say a word about it. He bites back the pain and discomfort in favour of cuddling Junior close to his chest, stroking his hair and back. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That’ll never happen again. I promise, little man. Daddy promises.”

Junior fists the tears from his eyes, blubbering soft nonsense. 

"You really not feeling good, baby?" Tucker soothes him. He ignores the sharp plastic of Junior’s toy that is now dug into his abdomen, the ache of his knees pressed against sticky linoleum. 

Junior shakes his head, hiccuping.

"My poor little dude.” He shifts Junior sideways on his lap, begins to rock them. “You can stay at home, okay? I'll call. I’m sorry, Junior. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. That was a bad thing to do."

Junior’s cries taper off into sniffles as he’s rocked, apologised to, told he can stay home. He drops his velociraptor, grabs a fistful of Tucker's hair instead.

Tucker releases a breath as Junior embraces him, sees it as his son’s silent _I forgive you,_ continues to soothe with gentle touches and words.

They sit like this for a while, huddled together under their grubby table, calming one another down.

Tucker’s eyebrows are knitted, firm with worry.

Junior's behaviour isn't normal and Tucker knows it isn’t. He’s known it for a while, has just been ignoring it because it was easier that way, Junior having always been too young for it to make any real difference.

Things are different now. Junior’s five.

Five-year-olds can hold coherent conversations, Junior can’t. They’re, in general, loud and excitable, Junior’s default is quiet and indifferent towards everything but dinosaurs. He’s supposed to _want_ to play new games, make new friends, go to school. Not get so overwhelmed to the point that he’s crawling under tables, putting his head between his legs, sticking a thumb in his mouth.

Tucker frets. He must have done something wrong to cause it. If Kai had stayed, would things be different now? Maybe if Tucker hadn’t gone out so often? Budgeted better? Kept the apartment cleaner? Put in more effort?

He must just be a terrible father. His outburst has only confirmed it.

Maybe his mom has been right all along. Maybe it would be better if Junior lived-

 _No!_ screams Tucker’s entire being. 

Not his baby, his son, his Junior.

Even the briefest entertainment of the thought has Tucker hugging him tighter, breathing going a little funny. 

Junior belongs at home with Tucker, not there, not with _her_.

"Da-dee?" pipes up Junior, his breathing now soft against Tucker's bare neck.

Tucker loosens his hold to look down at him, worn-out. "Yeah, buddy?"

Junior picks up his discarded toy, shows it to his father. "Ve-lo-shi-ra-tor,” he rasps, still hoarse from the tears.

"Yeah, my little dude." Tucker smiles and thumbs the tear tracks off Junior's cheeks. "It is a velociraptor. Good boy."

Junior nods at the confirmation with a little sniffle. He gives an exhausted smile back. 

Tucker smooths back Junior’s twirls. "Let's get you back in your PJs and back to bed." 

Junior nods again. He likes the sound of that.

Tucker scoots them both out from under the table. He stretches out his back, holding back a sigh as Junior immediately opens his arms to him. He hoists him up, the weight of his son heavier with each passing day.

He indulges Junior, as usual, in being carried and in helping him change back into his pyjamas.

"I'll be just outside, okay?" Tucker says after he's gotten Junior settled under the covers.

Junior is too tired to protest, eyes already sliding shut.

Tucker presses his lips to his forehead. “Sleep tight, my sweet little dude.”

He steps over the toys and clothes so he can shut Junior’s curtains, leaving the door ajar as he closes it.

He makes a beeline for the couch for his phone. Five unread messages. Three missed calls.

"Oh, fuck."

Tucker fumbles with his phone in his panic to hit his boss’ number, bringing it to his ear. He prays he has called back in time.

“It’s about time,” says Kimball as she picks up, as cutting as ever. “I have that new guy starting in twenty minutes and you said you’d show him the ropes. Where the hell are you?”

Tucker runs a hand over his face. “I’ll be there soon. It’s just Junior’s sick again and-”

The woman scoffs. “Please, Tucker, even you have to be getting tired of this bullshit excuse every other week. You know, it’s really starting to piss me off when you beg me for overtime and then no show without a word. I’ve told you already; if you need time off, tell me, and then I can re-assign your shifts so we’re not under-staffed. Does that sound unreasonable to you?”

Stress squeezes Tucker’s chest. “I-”

“Does it sound unreasonable to you?” repeats Kimball.

“...No,” utters Tucker, defeated. “Just- please, just listen a sec. This has just been a rough couple of months for us and-”

“Everybody goes through rough patches,” says Kimball. “But people still turn up to work. Or if not, they call their bosses and _tell them_ they’re gonna need to use up some holiday time!”

“What the fuck is your problem?!” explodes Tucker, his frustration bubbling over. “You don’t know anything about my life! I don’t know what the hell is wrong with him, alright? It’s a legitimate fucking situation. You think I haven’t needed those paychecks? I’ve been having to sell our shit just to get by! What the fuck!”

“You need to calm down.” Kimball’s voice takes on a harder, sudden edge. “You need to calm down right now.”

Tucker’s mouth dries, going a little light-headed with the realisation of what he’s just done.

Kimball sighs, heavy and conflicted. 

Tucker’s palm is sweaty against his phone. He is totally fired. He is totally fired. He is totally fired.

“I’m gonna let that slide,” his boss begins steadily, softening ever-so-slightly.

Tucker is so relieved he has to sit down.

Kimball continues, “But only because I know you have a lot going on right now. But, Tucker, if you ever speak to me like that again, you’re gone. Kid or no kid. Do you understand me?”

Tucker sucks in a breath. “Yes. I’m sorry. Thank-you. I really need this job.”

Kimball is silent for a moment. She sighs again, shorter. “Look, can you get here in twenty minutes or not? Otherwise I can call Doyle and you can have the day-” 

Tucker’s reply is immediate. “No, no. I can be there. I will be there. Twenty minutes. Got it.”

“Okay,” says Kimball. “Good to hear. Get here for ten past at the latest, and I’ll only dock off an hour. See you soon.”

Before Tucker can repeat his thanks she’s already hung up.

Twenty minutes. Tucker looks at the time, worries his bottom lip.

It takes him fifteen minutes to get there by foot so he has a grand total of five minutes to find some form of child care for Junior.

Tucker leaves the apartment barefoot, the front door open wide behind him.

He raps violently at Church’s door. 

Church would already be at work, but Caboose is on disability for his brain injury, so it isn't very often he’s out of the apartment for long periods. 

“Caboose!” he calls through the door when it doesn't open straight away. “Hey, dude! Are you there?”

Tucker lifts his phone and opens his contacts, hits Caboose’s number. He is met with Caboose’s voicemail, which would have automatically made Tucker laugh at any other time.

Tucker knocks with a little more desperation. He’s in. He has to be. He’s probably just in bed.

“Caboose!” he hollers. “Caboose! Dude, this is really fucking important! Hey, moron! Don’t ignore me. Come outside. Caboose!”

He tries calling Church next, which also goes unanswered.

“Damn it!” Tucker slams his fist against the door.

He looks to the stairs for the Red Floor, mentally going through his remaining options.

Grif will be at the diner. Simmons, too. Donut will have just gotten home from his night shift. It’s early, so Sarge will be out at the shooting range. Lopez will be… Tucker shakes his head at the thought. That’s a hard, straight no. Tucker wouldn’t trust the guy with a potted plant, let alone his son.

He has no one else he can turn to. 

Tucker’s eyes burn. He rests his head against Church’s front door, slowly crumpling onto his knees. He’s only just gotten social services off his ass. This can’t be happening again. All he wants is for Junior to be fed, comfortable and happy and he can’t even do that right.

“Uh, Tucker?” a tentative, semi-familiar voice interrupts his wallowing. “Are you okay there?”

Tucker looks up and is greeted with the puzzled face of the crazy cat guy. He is peering down at Tucker, shopping bags in hand and tired bags under his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m great,” chirps back Tucker, sarcastic. He grits a smile upward and shifts around on his ass, staying where he is on the threadbare carpet. “I’m hungover, about to lose my job and my kid is fucking miserable, but other than that, I’m as fine as a stripper’s ass. Thanks for asking!”

Washington first raises a brow, then seems to ponder on Tucker’s words a few moments. “You’re gonna lose your job?” he settles on first.

Tucker fought the urge to roll his eyes. 

Why is David Washington acting like he gives a shit? Looking at the guy now is nothing but a reminder that, on top of everything else, Tucker is going to have to scrape together three hundred bucks by the end of the month.

His previous optimism has all but drained away. The entire time at Donut’s, Tucker could practically _feel_ Washington’s strong dislike for him radiating like a beacon, looking disinterested and making minimum conversation, more interested in his cat and finding an excuse to get himself out the door as soon as possible.

“Yeah,” Tucker answers, unreasonably spiteful. “I have twenty minutes to get into work and there’s no one to watch my sick kid.”

The grey eyes watching him soften up around the edges. “Junior’s sick?”

Tucker’s eyebrows jump up at Washington’s genuinity, that he’d referred to Junior by name, so caught off-guard that when he does reply, his words lack their usual charismatic swagger. “Yeah. Again. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, man. I don’t know what to do.”

“That sucks,” Wash shifts awkwardly. “Have you, I dunno, taken him to a doctor?”

Tucker heard condescension, his brief vulnerability icing over. “Wow! You’re a fucking genius! A doctor!”

Washington frowns, pulls back slightly.

“Why the fuck didn't I think of that? That’d solve all our fucking problems, wouldn’t it? ‘ _Have you taken him to a doctor?_ ’ Of course I’ve taken him, jackass, he’s my son. You wanna know what the piece of shit doctor who I took him to told me? That there’s nothing wrong with him! And then guess what? The motherfucker charges me eighty-fucking-dollars for the fucking privilege! Eighty. Dollars. Fuck doctors, man.”

Wash feels the flicker of anger. A younger version of himself would have probably been irked to aggression by Tucker’s reply, but Wash has the intelligence to sense its indirectness, the control to stay calm. Whilst abrasive, Tucker’s words hold a tangible kind of desperation. Wash has just taken on the role of scapegoat is all. 

He’s about to walk past Tucker, away from the situation to his apartment, when Wash changes his mind at the last minute.

Controlling his anger doesn't mean he isn't allowed to voice his displeasure, as Doctor Grey keeps reminding, and Wash _is_ tired of staying silent all the time.

“There’s no need to be a dick,” he says, words tight but calm. “I was only trying to help.”

Like a lightswitch, Tucker’s attitude flips. “I can tell you ‘bout some real dick. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

Wash stares in mild confusion. It’s not the reply he was expecting.

“…Tough crowd,” Tucker jokes at the lack of response.

“You’re insane,” says Washington, stifling a smile.

Tucker laughs. “I don’t know how you’ve failed to notice, but I never really developed a filter.”

“No kidding. No one in this damn building has,” replies Wash. He shifts all of his bags into one hand, plastic crinkling, so that he can offer Tucker a helping hand up.

Tucker eyes the hand momentarily. It’s broad and worn, veins distinctive, much more enticing up close then he’d ever expected, and it feels strong when he accepts it with a clasp. 

The thought is only confirmed when Washington hauls up Tucker’s entire body weight with visibly little effort, and Tucker has to school the shock off his face.

“You know, Tucker…”

At the mention of his name, Tucker looks at him, feelings still a little jumbled.

“I’ve met a lot of people,” says Wash, “but you guys, by far, are some of the most interesting civilians I’ve ever met in my life.”

Tucker blinks. It is then he notices the small, but warmingly friendly, smile that has appeared on the man’s lips. _Oh,_ he thinks.

Washington is, admittedly, actually pretty attractive when he isn't scowling. Sure, rings still mark his eyes and scars still mark his skin, but objectively the face underneath it is pleasant.

He has a nice smile, teeth clean and evenly spaced. His eyes are storm clouds ready to burst on a summer’s day, soft and grey, his lashes brown. He has the beginnings of crows’ feet and wrinkles between his brows, but they added depth, spoke of a time he had once been expressive, happy. The freckles are Washington’s most striking feature, of course, prominent against his pale cheeks, his nose, his forehead. Tucker wonders if the sun brought them out.

“Civilians?” says Tucker dumbly.

Wash nods and continues stiffly, “Before, when you first spoke to me, I had assumed that you had some kind of malicious motive behind introducing yourself.” He shifts his groceries back between both hands. “But after yesterday, I realised that I was wrong. That it’s just how you are. That you were being friendly. That you are actually trying to…” Wash is awkward. “Ask me out for coffee, or whatever, and I was rude to you for no reason.”

Tucker swallows a pang of guilt.

“So I, uh,” Wash fumbles, cheeks going a little pink. “I just wanted to apologise. Your confidence caught me off-guard and I shouldn’t have… Look, what I’m trying to say is: I’m sorry.”

Tucker’s guilt grows thicker, but still manages to quirk a smile. “Don’t sweat it, dude.”

Wash swallows, expression thankful, although tinged with a little sheepishness. “I don’t really talk to people very often these days... after I got back from Iraq, it’s been a little difficult for me to take anything at face value, you know?”

Missing pieces are falling into place. Civilians. Iraq. Scars. Cat guy’s bizarre behaviour. 

It makes chilling sense to Tucker all at once. 

David Washington’s a veteran. 

Wow, this morning is just proving over and over Tucker’s more of a massive asshole than he had ever thought possible. He spoke robotically through the revelation, “Thank-you for your service.”

Wash shakes his head slightly, looking away, and there's an awkward little silence.

“War makes it hard to trust people,” offers Tucker, parroting Donut talking after Sarge instead of coming up with it himself.

Wash nods once. Tucker’s words help him gain back enough confidence to meet his eye again. “Yeah,” he says, pushing himself. “But we could still be friends, right?”

Tucker broke into a full grin, his reply unscripted and genuine, “Sure, man. I’d love to be friends.”

Wash’s own smile comes easier. Dr. Grey’s going to be really pleased with him. “Great.”

Tucker suddenly remembers this is the man he’s supposed to be manipulating and his grin becomes forced, disgusted with himself.

Washington glances backwards to Tucker’s open door. "So, uh, I know you’ve only just met me, and I understand if you don’t wanna leave me alone with your kid, but I’m not really doing anything today, or ever, really, so I wouldn’t mind watching him for you. You sound like you really need this job.”

Tucker’s temporary self-loathing is overridden. He pulls his phone from his back pocket. 9:53 AM. Ten minutes to get to the car wash and no time to find an alternative babysitter.

Tucker looks from his apartment, to David Washington, to his phone.

He makes his decision and prays it’s the right one. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d actually really appreciate that.”

Wash looks surprised, but not displeased. “Oh, uh, sure.”

“I’ll try and get a hold of someone to take him off your hands ASAP,” promises Tucker. “Thanks. I really owe you, man.”

Wash’s head bobs along. “It’s no problem. Just let me drop these off at my apartment and I’ll be right over.”

“Awesome. I’ll leave my keys in the door.”

“Okay-”

Tucker goes back inside without looking back and stomps his feet into his work trainers. 

He presses a mental kiss to Junior’s forehead and jogs down the staircase, breaks out into a run once he’s onto Main Street. He doesn’t linger on his decision, is afraid he’ll regret it if he does.

Feet hitting pavement, Tucker ignores yells as he pushes past the inconsiderate assholes in his way. 

The time flies by, and soon he’s sticking up a middle finger at a car that almost runs him over as he crosses the street towards Kimball’s Auto Shine. He can still hear its horn blaring as he sprints past his co-workers outside, not having time to flash a smile let alone say hello. 

He reaches his destination and throws open the door to Kimball’s office.

The clock above his boss’ head clicks to exactly ten past. Tucker is just too good.

“Hey!” gasps Tucker. “Told you - I’d be - here - in twenty!”

He uses the doorway as support, trying to soften Vanessa’s stare with his best, most charming smile.

She purses a tight-lipped smile in return, hands clasps over her desk. Her neat bob is tucked back behind dark ears, adorned with their usual small, gold hoops. 

“Good morning, Lavernius. So nice of you to finally join us. Please take a seat.” She is playfully passive aggressive, Kimball’s forte.

“God, don’t ever call me that again. I’m getting childhood flashbacks.” Tucker comes inside and flops down onto the sofa. Anxiety tends to make him extra cocky.

Kimball cracked a smirk with a sweeping roll of her eyes.

There is a man already sitting in the chair opposite Kimball’s desk. He’s watching Tucker with an unreadable expression that could be described best as mildly amused. He looks young, too young for the tattoos wrapped around his arms and the piercings on his face. Asians tend to have a knack for looking twelve for the first twenty-five or so years of their life though, Tucker thinks.

“Tucker, this is Felix, the new guy I was telling you about. Felix, this is Tucker, he’s been with us for about a year now.”

Tucker gives a nod. “Hey, man.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” replies Felix, good-natured. He stands, offers Tucker a hand.

Tucker reluctantly gets back to his feet to shake it.

Felix’s hand is deceitfully slight. It had looked rather fragile, but when Tucker takes it, tough calluses brush his own. It seems Felix has done a lot of manual labour, too.

“Great,” says Kimball. “Now introductions are out the way. We just finished up Felix’s paperwork, so I’d like you to show him the in’s and out’s of everything.”

“Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

Kimball gave a scolding, motherly look. “Tucker.”

“What?” Tucker grins. “You have to admit, you handed me that one.”

Kimball looks to her new employee, dry and apologetic. “Welcome to the team.”

Felix laughs warmly. “Thank-you, Vanessa.” His eyes crinkle as he then smiles at Tucker. “I’m liking this place already.”

Tucker likes _him_ already. Felix seems friendly and capable, which means he isn't going to spend the whole day whining over how hot it is outside, or how the disinfectant is hurting his hands, or how tiring the work is. Tucker gets more than enough of that with every new turnaround of staff. Car washers tend not to last that long.

Tucker got all his complaints over blue-collar work out of his system early, when he was seventeen and working cash in hand at a sketchy warehouse. Even then he couldn’t afford to whine much when he’d had Junior and Kai to provide for.

“Better get started then,” says Tucker. “I’ll introduce you to the gang and show you how we clean cars.”

“There’s more than one way to clean a car?” Now Felix is the one being cocky.

“Yeah,” banters back Tucker. “The right way.”

Kimball adds, “I can trust you with Felix’s induction, then, Tucker?”

“Yes, boss.” Tucker mock-salutes. 

Felix leaves first, and just before Tucker closes the office door to follow him, he flashes Kimball a big, thankful grin. There’s no reason for her to keep Tucker on after that phone call they’d had earlier. She could have easily told him he’d missed one day too many, is within her rights to do so. Unlike Tucker, she’s a good person.

Kimball returns his smile with a fond, tolerant look.

Feix and he cross the parking lot to where a car is being serviced. 

“After you meet everyone, I can talk you through the different types of washes,” says Tucker.

“Different types of washes?” says Felix.

“Fuck yeah, dude. There’s the quick wash, the bronze wash, the silver wash and the gold wash.”

“Wow,” replies Felix with a touch of too much enthusiasm. “That sounds fascinating.”

Tucker side-eyes Felix a look. “Was that sarcasm?”

“Maybe a little.” Felix grins again and Tucker notices in the closer proximity one of his front teeth is chipped.

“You’ll fit right in then,” says Tucker.

They reach a party of three not so discreetly squabbling. A customer is waiting on the wall next to the garage with their boyfriend for them to finish up.

“Guys, this is Felix.” Tucker interrupts the bickering smoothly, gaining everyone’s attention almost immediately. “He’s the guy replacing Bitters.”

“Hi, Felix! Welcome to the-” a teenager slurps saliva through her braces- “team. I’m Katie, but everyone here calls me Jensen.”

“Smith.” A man who looks a good few years older than Tucker introduces with a nod, snatching a sponge away from the last co-worker.

“The ladies call me Palomo.” The student who’d previously had the sponge smiles. He tries to lean casually on the bonnet of the car and slips on the suds, falls onto his ass. 

Jensen giggles away in the background as Andersmith shakes his head.

Tucker snorts at their antics, looks to see Felix’s reaction. 

Felix senses the eyes on him and immediately laughs, too.

Tucker slaps him on the shoulder. “Alright. Better get this done quick, guys. Damn, is this that girl’s car? She is _smoking_. Here, Felix, take this.”

Felix grits his teeth into a carefree smile and takes the sponge Tucker shoves at him.

**12:00PM  
** **Tucker & Junior’s Place,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

Is there anything in Tucker’s kitchen that isn't processed garbage? 

White bread, marshmallow creme, plastic cheese, vacuum-packed lunch meat, full fat milk, endless packets of Lays. It’s endless. Washington hasn’t seen so much crap in one kitchen since York's bachelor pad.

His body tenses at the sensation of someone watching him. He pauses his rummaging to glance over his shoulder with precision to the feeling’s source.

At the young, wide eyes his gaze goes directly into, he relaxes. 

It’s only Tucker’s son.

The boy is visibly afraid. He has his thumb in his mouth and his hand in his hair, no doubt wondering where his father is and why a stranger is in his kitchen. 

“…Hey, Junior,” greets Wash, knocking shut the cupboard he’d been going through and un-crouching from the floor. “How are you feeling?”

Junior doesn't reply. He stays glued to the spot, frozen. His tangible fear makes Washington anxious, too. 

“Do you remember me, Junior? It’s David. We met yesterday. I’m Ari’s dad. You know, the cat you found?” His tone stays clear and calm.

Recognition flashes in Junior’s eyes and the iron fist in his hair loosens. His thumb, however, stays firmly between his lips and he keeps up his silence.

Wash gives an awkward smile, tries to appear as non-threatening as possible. “Tucker - your dad, I mean - he needed to go into work, so, uh... so it’s just us two until he comes home. Or until he sends someone else over. I’m kind of hoping for the latter. I’m not that great at this. As you can tell.”

Junior is stoic and unreadable as he continues to stare.

Wash wonders whether his words are having any impact what-so-ever, if he could even understand.

He rubs a sweaty hand on his pants before he jerks a thumb towards the dirty kitchen counter. “You hungry? I can make you something to eat, if you are.” He pauses. “If you're hungry, that is."

Junior continues his unsureness for a few long, breathless seconds more before he removes his thumb from between his lips and pads over to the kitchen table. He side-eyes Washington cautiously as he climbs up onto a chair.

Wash is relieved he hasn’t fled but isn’t arrogant enough to assume he’s out of the woods just yet. "I was thinking of making us some sandwiches. Do you like sandwiches?"

Junior shrugs. Tucker hadn’t had the time to clear up, so the table is more cluttered than usual. Junior reaches out for his spoon to stir around his uneaten breakfast.

“Maybe you shouldn’t eat that,” advises Wash. “It looks like it's been there all morning.”

Junior nods in agreement and continues to push mush around the chipped bowl.

Wash fishs out four slices from the bread bag. He takes the lunch meat, the processed cheese and a tub of butter out of the fridge. He opens draws until he finds a knife. “Ham and cheese okay?”

Wash turns his head in time to see the child nod.

Wash has to push things out of the way to find working space, the countertop sticky with stains. "Next time, I’ll have to bring some stuff from my place. Have you ever had a BLT before? They're really good. It’s bacon, lettuce and tomato on toasted bread."

Junior pushes aside his Lucky Charms, done with that game, and opens his abandoned colouring book from yesterday instead. After a brief look around for his colours, he continues on his pterodactyl.

Talking like this with Junior kind of reminds Wash of the way he talks with his cats. One-sided and free from judgement. He begins to put together their sandwiches efficiently, briefly side-tracked by the broken shards in the sink. So that’s where the rest of the pieces are, he thinks, having already swept up the rest off the floor.

"Usually, when I make it, I end up frying a couple of rashers for my cats too. Epsilon especially likes bacon, but he was a stray, so he'll eat pretty much anything you give him. Okay, that’s a lie. He’s actually pretty fussy these days. I found him a couple of weeks after I moved in here. I think he was living in one of the alleys downtown.”

Junior keeps colouring.

"It took about a month before he finally followed me home. I ended up spending most of my living allowance on tins of tuna. I’d go out every day just to stop by his alley and see him." 

Done, Wash put Junior's sandwich on a plate and cut it up into squares. He sets it down carefully next to his crayons and sits opposite Junior with his own, identical lunch. 

Washington is good at dealing with silence, often prefers it these days, so he’s unbothered by Junior’s ignorance, having expected it after receiving a similar reaction yesterday. Still, he searches for something else to say since his tangent has reached its conclusion. What’s a kid-friendly question? 

The best he can come up with is, "Do you have a favourite animal?”

Junior switches colours and taps the open page of his book before he goes about making the pterodactyl's beak a light shade of yellow.

"Dinosaurs?" asks Wash.

Junior nods in affirmation but is still not looking at him. The strokes of his crayon are gentle, and after a few more, he sets the colour down to pull the plate closer and take a big bite of sandwich.

Wash lifts his own, too. "Dinosaurs are a bit too scary for me.”

Junior cracks a slight smile at that, and Wash smiles, too. At least he’d managed to get something.

They both eat in silence for a little while.

Washington notices that Junior is still in his pyjamas, about to suggest Junior get dressed after lunch before he changes his mind. He should leave that task to Tucker, or at least another adult who knew Junior better. Wash is surprised enough as it is that Tucker trusted him with his son in the first place. 

His gaze drifts about the kitchen. It needs a good clean, but he doesn't feel it’s his place to do it, feeling like he’s interfered enough by sweeping up the broken plates he’d found spilled all over the floor.

It’s really not his business, even if he does have questions.

He resolves to ignore the grime and clutter in favour of winning Junior over. If he does that, it’s going to make their time together a whole lot easier.

Wash chews through a few more mouthfuls and swallows. "You wanna play a game after you've finished?"

Junior stops his own chewing and finally meets Wash's eyes.

Wash is confused, borderline alarmed, as to why Junior is suddenly looking at him so intensely before he realises he’s simply waiting for him to expand.

Now that he has his undivided attention, mild panic set in.

Games. What games does he know? Age appropriate games at that. Wash doesn't have any kid experience. This is harder than he’d been anticipating. 

"How about…” Washington flounders momentarily, thinking of games he used to play as a child. “Hide and seek?"

Junior considers the offer seriously. After a few moments, it is accepted, the little boy nodding and returning to his sandwich.

Wash lets out a breath he didn't even realise he had been holding in. Mission success.


	5. The Best Fucking Lasagne

**27 Days Remaining  
** **05:19AM  
** **Agent Washington’s Apartment,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

Washington’s day starts, predictably, with a mouthful of fur. 

He simply lies there for a few moments before he lets out a muffled sigh, scoots Skyler’s mass off of his face so that he can breathe easier. 

The cracked ceiling comes into view, lit dully by the early morning.

There’s a light pressure on his chest. Wash sleepily looks to it and, just as predictably, finds Ari curled up there, still dozing. Wash threads fingers through her fur as Skyler readjusts her position above, now flush against the top of his head like a hat. His free hand goes up to pet her, too, and they both begin to purr at the attention. 

They rest together quietly, and after a while, Skyler starts kneading at their pillow and Ari stretches out.

It’s nice, and Wash acknowledges it’s nice, the ghost of a smile about to cross his lips before the whispered depths of his mind remind him that he doesn't deserve it. He doesn’t deserve it because they’re all dead and Wash is alive and he could have saved them and he could have done something but he didn’t and now-

Wash closes his eyes, releases a long exhale. It isn’t the time to be spiralling when he’s been conscious for barely five minutes.

Dr. Grey has been encouraging him to be gentler with himself in moments like this, but old habits die hard, especially when Washington is struggling so terribly with this so-called _survivor's guilt_ (or as Wash more aptly names it: cowardice.) 

Wash sits up and Ari meows in offence. He guides her to his side and she resettles, forgiving.

He looks down the bed, to the second weight on his ankles, and is unsurprised to find Epsilon there. He glares at Washington as if to say _I dare you to move me,_ so Wash slips a foot smoothly out from under him in negotiation, receives a grumble in response.

“Shut up,” grumbles back Wash. 

He rubs at his eye and retracts his second foot, swings both legs out of bed and throws back the covers. He imagines the thrift-store sheets were a shade of white once upon a time, but now they’re grey with age, much like how Wash feels.

He slumps forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He is exhausted. 

Having left his meds in the cupboard where they’d remained all week, Wash had managed to drift into the elusive abyss of sleep a little after three, but it had been fitful and shallow, his body snapping awake at every sound. 

And there’s a lot of sounds where Wash lives now. Pipes creaking and hissing when anyone in the building runs water, cars speeding by outside, sirens wailing, dogs barking, drunks stumbling past his window at all hours like clockwork. And that doesn't even take into account the loudmouths next door or the arguing couple above him.

He yawns. He has a complicated relationship with sleep. Whilst his body keens for it, his mind does not. When he does finally go under, he’s more often than not met with remnants of memories he would rather leave behind.

As much as Wash is trying to train himself back into civilian life, it’s difficult. 

He seems unable to get out of the mindset of the battlefield; the mundane sounds that disturb him are threats, those who approach him are the enemy, a change in routine is risky. Dr. Grey wants him to start lowering his guard, but lowering his guard is dangerous, is exactly the moment things go wrong. 

All Wash has known his entire adult life is the military. Having it taken away from him feels like he’s had an essential part of himself non-consensually taken away, like he’s being forced to live without the things that make David Washington, David Washington. He’s really struggling to find a purpose.

_“There’s no shame in an honourable discharge.”_

Honourable discharge, his ass.

He had asked to stay, perhaps ‘begged’ was more fitting, but the higher-ups had wanted him gone, so they found themselves a psychiatrist happy to convince The Board he wasn’t stable enough to stay. 

Fucking Aiden Price. 

Another person who'd told him it was okay to lower his guard, another person he never should have trusted.

Agent Washington isn’t stupid. He’s the sole survivor of a grade-A fuck up. Shipping him away under the guise of mental instability means the officials can’t touch him. 

He had been the dust that needed sweeping away under the rug, the answer to a question his superiors didn't want asked. And he’s all neatly swept away now, isn't he? Swept away into this hell hole with barely enough to scrape by. Although, he supposes he’s lucky he’s being given money at all.

He massages his eyelids.

A _KIA_ death he could do, what he'd always envisioned. At least that way he would have died beside his team. His current, mundane existence is like watching the flames of death lick closer and closer to his body, and all he can do is watch, paralysed and helpless. Could he be forgiven for wanting to douse himself in gasoline just to get it over and done with?

He stretches out just in time for his alarm to chime. Five-thirty. Wash switches it off.

He kills ten minutes getting dressed and feeding his cats, out of the door by six for his morning run. 

Usually Wash would use his treadmill, but one of his goals for the month is to spend more time out of the apartment. So here he is. Jogging outside.

The rush of air is sharp against Wash’s skin. He’s finding more enjoyment than he’d expected from running around the streets with each new departure, but in general the familiar burn of his muscles is pleasant and grounding, the stress of his lungs overworking one of Washington’s favourite sensations.

After his usual route, he returns home ready for breakfast.

Opening the fridge, Wash realises he had forgotten to buy milk during yesterday's grocery trip. 

“Great,” he says to the empty kitchen, pours the dregs of the old carton over some granola. 

He has a banana, the cereal tasting a little dry, but edible, follows it with a cup of orange juice. 

Skyler is at his heels throughout, feigning hunger and begging for scraps. Wash ignores at first but predictably caves, gets up to toss a handful of treats over the floor. It’s no wonder she’s borderlining obesity.

Wash huffs a laugh as Ari appears at the sound, full-throttle, watches them speedily lap everything up. He tips back the rest of his juice, rinses out his bowl in the sink, and then stands there for a few moments, lost.

Chores. There’s the litter tray to empty, garbage to be thrown down the chute, a wash to put on.

Washington does it all and then immediately returns to his previous state of aimlessness.

What now? He isn’t sure. Maybe he’ll check his mail.

He goes downstairs to do just that.

“Good morning, Corporal,” greets Sarge from his office window.

The corner of Wash’s mouth tugs. “Good morning, Sergeant.” 

He unlocks his letter box. Wash expects nothing and finds nothing. The whole experience is pretty indifferent. He locks it back up.

“You seen this? I’d execute the dirt bag if I could.” Sarge gestures to his newspaper.

Wash catches the headline, looks away. 

**THE HARGROVE TRIAL CONTINUES**

“I don't follow the news anymore,” he replies.

He heads back for the stairs, catches Sarge’s departing words despite how he tries to avoid them. “You should never be ignorant when it comes to the enemy, no matter how despicable they may be!”

Washington moves a little faster, anxious to lock his door and push everything out of his head.

Ignorance is bliss, after all… but who is he kidding? Like he has the luxury of ignoring it. It’s all around him. Turn on the television and it’s all the news anchors are talking about.

He hangs up his hoodie with shaky fingers and does crunches until his abdomen aches and he’s light-headed. He follows up with push-ups, tears off his shirt once it’s so drenched that it's become uncomfortable. He tucks an arm behind his back at two-hundred-and-sixty-three, grunts as the exhaustive pain soothes his mind temporarily.

Eventually, the adrenaline burns out and he collapses. 

He struggles to catch his breath, searches for a distraction to cling to, anything, anything, but it’s too late, their faces have already flooded his mind without his permission.

He breaks into sobs, chest heaving, sticky with sweat. “I’m sorry,” he moans. “It should’ve been me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

He pains for the arms he’s never going to get back to comfort him. All he wants is his presence, his steady heartbeat, his broadness, the scent of his skin, his shirt, their pillow. 

He wants it back so badly it hurts. Wants it so badly he can’t breathe.

He sees his lover’s body, face down among the carnage. Wash watches himself crawl towards him, watches himself wipe the blood across his own face so he can lay there, motionless and silent, hiding himself in plain sight, tricking them, those monsters, into thinking he’s dead like the rest of them.

Like the fucking coward he is.

His distress flares, becomes a white hot fury burning so bright that his fists itch to curl, to lash out and hit something, _someone_. He sees Hargrove’s face and he swears he can hear his blood boiling. 

His entire body is shaking. He takes a few, shuddery breaths and reminds himself that he isn’t that person anymore. 

He controls his anger; his anger doesn't control him. 

He tugs at his hair in frustration, wills the tears to stop leaking, for his uncontrollable shaking to cease.

How could he still call himself a soldier? He’s pathetic.

It isn't fair. He was the least deserving out of everyone to get to walk away with his life, and yet here he is, breathing and living. But he’s shit at it. Even Wyoming would be doing a better job than he is.

Once he’s a little calmer, Wash’s vision clears and he realises he has an audience; Ari, Skyler and Epsilon watching him.

He lets out a final, little sob and releases the punishing grip he has on his hair. “Hey, guys,” he wobbles.

They stare.

He wipes his eyes and sits up. 

Skyler comes to him first, then Ari, and Wash spends a few minutes mindlessly petting his companions. Even Epsilon seems to sense it’s not a good time to be an ass and joins them, too, lets Wash smooth out his fur without as much as a swipe.

He checks the time. He’d been gone for just under three hours. It always makes him sick and uneasy when his episodes cause him to lose time like this.

He showers and changes into sweats.

It’s heated up already as Wash pads out of his bedroom. He flicks on the fan and collapses onto the sofa, reaches for the remote. Mindless daytime television. Just what he needs.

A quarter-ways into _Unsolved Mysteries,_ Epsilon climbs up and settles into Wash’s lap. 

Wash rubs a calloused thumb over his half-ear, the flesh no doubt torn away by some alley scrap he had gotten into before Wash took him in. A low, broken grumble of a purr starts deep in the animal’s chest and he pads against Washington’s jogging pants, stretching out.

“Oh, I get it, suck up to the guy with a fan,” says Wash, but he’s smiling.

Epsilon presses his face back into Washington’s hand, his affection less of a rarity nowadays than it had been before, although he would still occasionally turn around and bite Wash for no apparent reason.

The longer they sit together, the hotter it becomes, but Wash doesn't dare open any windows again, not when Ari’s disappearance is still fresh in his mind. 

He should talk to Sarge about his air con malfunctioning , but he’s struggling to find the point.

Life doesn't really have anything to offer Washington anymore, so what’s a little more suffering? The cats don’t seem too bothered about it.

He rests, uninterested in what’s going on on screen, about to give into the wallowing completely when he thinks of Dr. Grey again. 

_“When you’re feeling like that, I want you to list the things that are important to you. The things that make you happy. Your mind is just playing tricks on you, there’s plenty worth living for.”_

Wash sighs. Things that make him happy. 

He struggles, doesn’t have a lot to work with. He likes training, he guesses. Likes setting goals and hitting them. Likes the colour yellow.

He snorts at himself. _He likes the colour yellow_? What is he? Five?

Washington thinks of Lavernius Tucker Junior scribbling in his colouring book.

He smiles briefly, returns to Dr. Grey’s instructed exercise. A list of important things.

His cats, obviously, are at the top of the list. They’re very important. Without Wash they wouldn’t have anyone to look after them, so they’re definitely worth living for.

His mom? His sister? Maybe, but only one-sidedly. He’s certain they both still hate his guts and would cross the street if they came across one another. They certainly don’t need Wash sticking around on their behalf. He doesn’t blame them. 

He struggles. 

That’s all he really has, in all honesty. The best he can come up with. He would have no doubt killed himself already if it wasn’t for those three. On further reflection, that in itself is pretty pathetic.

It’s not like he has friends anymore-

Okay, so maybe he’s being a little hard on himself there. He might not have secured friends _currently_ , but he is working on it.

Franklin Donut seems pretty intent on the two of them being friendly. Lavernius Tucker, too. Even Sarge.

They have to count for something, right?

Maybe they could one day become bullet point number two on his _stopping-myself-from-putting-a-bullet-between-my-eyes_ list.

He thinks about yesterday. What an odd, weirdly pleasant change of pace that had been from the mind-numbing monotony. And the day before that, too, (outside of the stressor of Ari, obviously.)

Wash recognises it as the beginnings of him stepping out of his comfort zone. Another thing Dr. Grey keeps encouraging. 

Maybe the road to recovery isn’t as impossible as Wash has feared. Maybe this isn’t all there is. Maybe this is a second chance.

_“If he was here, would he want you punishing yourself like this?”_

No, thinks Wash, he wouldn’t.

His gaze drifts back to the television and he shields the tentative hope carefully with both hands. It’s delicate, and he is sure even the gentlest of winds would snuff it out, but it’s still there, it exists, and Wash’s world feels just that little bit more copable just by it being there. 

It turns out this therapy stuff isn’t so bad, after all.

  
  


**05:50PM  
** **Stop & Shop Groceries,   
** **Main Street**

Wash is regretting his decision to go out this early. 

He had forgotten just how fuller the streets were when it wasn’t the crack of dawn or the dead of night, had swived in and out of the crowds his whole way there, fighting every instinct to just abort the mission and go home.

The supermarket is bright and artificial. Wash knows its layout very well by now and heads straight for the dairy aisle, grabs a couple cartons of semi-skimmed from the cooler. The hubbub is making him very anxious so he heads straight for the checkout counters once he has them.

He looks for Donut but he is nowhere to be found. Wash guesses he must not be working tonight, settles for another cashier instead. She makes idle small talk as she scans and Wash returns the bare minimum with a tight smile, pays by cash, leaves.

As the doors slide shut behind Washington, he’s greeted with the pitter-patter of rain. He sighs and pulls up his hood.

Half way home, the rain becomes a downpour. 

“Great,” he mutters. At least this means the path back will have less people.

Rainwater seeps straight through the cotton of Wash’s clothes, leaves his skin slick and cold. He grimaces, fringe plastered to his forehead, dribbling water into his eyes. His feet squelch in their trainers and Wash is reminded of the early days of bootcamp, seventeen again.

He slows his pace once he reaches BloodGulch Apartments.

He feels guilty dripping water all over the lobby, the stairs, but there’s not much else he can do about it. 

Reaching his door, he pushes his hand into his pocket for his keys. His brows knit. It’s empty. He searches his second pocket and finds just his wallet. He pats his back pockets in a last ditch effort, but they’re empty, too.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Wash re-patts everywhere, opens the plastic shopping bag to peer inside fruitlessly.

Then it comes to him. He knows where his keys are. He left them on his kitchen table next to his phone.

Wash gives the door handle a pointless tug, groans. Give me a break, he thinks, wipes wet hands on equally wet sweatpants.

He leaves his shopping in the hall and heads back downstairs.

He raps on the office door. “Sergeant? It’s David. Are you there?”

The window grate remains closed. Not a good sign.

He tries Sarge’s apartment next, knocks, waits, knocks again.

Looks like he’s not home.

Wash isn’t sure what the best course of action is. He doesn't have his phone, so he can’t call him, and has no idea when Sarge will come back from… wherever it is he disappears to for hours on end.

For some reason, his next thought is of Tucker.

He owed him a favour, right?

**06:23PM  
** **Tucker & Junior’s Place,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

“Hey, little man,” says Tucker at the pressure against his leg.

Junior looks up at him blankly, visibly tired after a long day at school. 

Tucker gives a smile, knows how he feels, twirls one of Junior’s thick locks around his finger. It needs washing and re-styling soon. Tucker thinks he’ll let it free to breathe for a couple weeks. “You hungry?” he asks, gets down another plate from the cupboard.

Junior nods, chin rested against him.

“It’ll be ready soon.”

Junior nods again.

A knock comes from the front door and they both look towards the noise. Junior releases him as he goes to get it, unsure who it could be. Hopefully Church. He’d gone radio silent the last few days and Tucker hadn’t been able to get hold of him anywhere.

Tucker is surprised by what he finds out in the hall, but he quickly recovers, his face relaxing into a confident smile. “Hi, Wash,” he says. He allows the hinges of the door to swing open wider, leans against the frame. “You’re sure looking _washed-up_ , huh?”

Wash looks back at him, reminds Tucker of a drowned kitten, if kittens could blush and speak that is. “That was terrible,” he replies dryly.

Tucker grins wider. “You know when you take a shower, you’re supposed to take off your clothes, right?”

“It was the rain,” says Washington seriously, like he hasn’t clocked it was a joke.

Tucker let out a well-natured laugh. 

Wash’s face goes redder. “Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but I locked myself out without my phone and Sarge isn’t home. Could I borrow a towel?”

Tucker’s shit-eating grin receding back to a close-lipped smirk. “Sure, man. Come on in. We were just about to have dinner.”

“Thanks.” Wash comes inside.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Oh, uh, just some milk.”

“Give it to me and I’ll put it in the fridge.” Tucker is accommodating. “If you go get dried off in the bathroom, I’ll find something for you to get changed into, alright? There’s towels on the back of the door.”

“Thanks,” repeats Wash politely.

Tucker smacks Wash’s arm. “Stop saying ‘thanks,’ idiot, and go get dry.”

Wash watches the hand that bats him cautiously before he gives a thankful, little smile, goes in the direction he’s been gestured in. 

Junior has come to the doorway to see who it is. Tucker watches Wash and his son acknowledge one another; Junior offers a shy wave, Wash raises an awkward hand back.

It’s actually kind of adorable.

Tucker mindlessly grabs some clothes from his dresser. He takes a stretchy black shirt and some jeans Donut had bought for Caboose that ended up too small on him, passed off onto Tucker since he was the next tallest in their friendship group.

He raps on the bathroom door, swings it open without a second thought (the lock was broken months ago.)

“I hope these fit, they’re the…” Tucker trails off.

He is unable to believe his eyes, because there David Washington is, towel gripped tight around his waist, naked and damp and mouth-wateringly _jacked to shit._

Tucker is unable to do anything but stare. His abdomen looks hard enough to cut glass, dusted with ample freckles and hair, biceps strong and capable, his nipples hard from the chill. Tucker is hit with the want to run his hands over him. Or his tongue. Yeah, his tongue sounds even better.

Wash half-covers his chest with his free arm, face heating up all over again.

The movement snaps Tucker out of his fantasies running away with themselves and he has the decency to blush at his own gawping, tries to laugh it off. “Right. Right. Yeah. Dry clothes.”

Washington clears his throat with a nod, Tucker even more surprised to see a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem, man.” Tucker awkwardly sets the bundle atop the toilet lid. “I’ve made lasagne, by the way,” he rambles. “You like lasagne? Even if you don’t, I’m pretty sure you’ll like mine. It’s the best fucking lasagne in the world. Even Junior’s says so.”

Wash’s smile widens ever so slightly. “Those were his exact words, huh?”

Tucker snorts a little louder than he meant to. “Alright, wise guy, how about you start treating the guy helping you out with a little more respect?”

Tucker is even _more_ surprised when a little laugh bubbles out past Wash’s lips in response, although judging by Wash’s expression, he’s surprised by it, too.

“Seriously, though,” says Tucker. “What are your thoughts on lasagne?”

“Lasagne is fine,” replies Wash, back in control of himself. 

Tucker grins. “Cool. Great. Awesome.”

They both watch one another

“So, uh, I’m gonna-” Wash breaks the silence. “I’m gonna get changed now.”

“Oh. Oh! Yeah, totally, dude. I’ll get out of your hair.” Tucker’s face felt hotter, but he kept up a plastered smile. 

“Thanks.”

“Shout me if you need anything!” Tucker calls through the gap in the door as it closes, cringes as soon as he’s out of view.

He holds his face in his hands all the way back to the kitchen. He approaches the fridge and thuds his forehead against the cool surface a few times with a long groan. The magnets rattle. Finished releasing frustration at his own stupidity, he turns back around, finds Junior watching him.

He’s paused his play, an unspoken question on his face. 

“It’s nothing, little man,” answers Tucker. “Daddy’s just being an idiot.”

That’s nothing new. Junior returns to feeding his dinosaurs dried pasta.

**06:45PM  
** **Tucker & Junior’s Place,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

Washington sits awkwardly at Tucker’s kitchen table, back there a lot sooner than he’d expected. “It smells good,” he offers, unsure what else to say.

“Duh,” says Tucker, hauls a bubbling dish out from the oven. “We need the table now, J, so tidy everything up, okay?”

Opposite, Junior obediently begins dismantling the cutlery he was using to make, what appeared to be at least, little enclosures for each of his plastic figurines. He sweeps up broken lasagna sheets into a little pile next, looks to his father when he’s done.

“Good boy,” praises Tucker, busy plating everything up.

Wash cracks a little smile to himself.

Tucker pours out a glass of juice, sets it down in front of Junior who picks it up with both hands, takes a few gulps. He sets down his son’s plate next, then Wash’s, then his own. “You want a beer?” he asks.

“No, thanks,” says Wash.

Tucker doesn’t push, pours out a second glass of juice, fetches a beer for himself from the fridge. 

Wash and Junior cross gazes. Junior looks away at first before he nudges a triceratops Wash’s way in a shy show of hospitableness. Wash smiles at the offering and Junior smiles back. The little boy has very quickly endeared himself to Washington. 

“Thanks,” says Wash, brings the dinosaur over to his side of the table. 

Junior doesn’t respond, takes another mouthful of juice as Tucker collapses into a chair, twists the top of his bottle.

“Busy day?” asks Wash, doing his best at being conversational.

“You have no idea,” says Tucker, digging into his meal.

Wash blinks, sees Junior is doing the same and guesses it's his cue to eat, too. “Thanks for dinner,” he says as he cuts into his slice.

“Wait ‘til you put it in your mouth, _then_ you’ll be thanking me.” Tucker flashs a wink. “Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

Wash shakes his head a little, takes a bite. He’s expecting it to be okay, but is shocked to find that it’s exactly as promised. The pasta is tomato-y and garlic-y and just that little bit spicy, layered with heaps upon heaps of melted cheese.

“It’s actually really good,” he tells Tucker immediately around the forkful, realising too late he’s talking with a mouth full of food, a hand flashing up to cover it.

Tucker is, thankfully, unaffected and smiles. “I told you! Best fucking lasagne, remember?”

Junior nods feverishly in agreement, struggling to cut himself a mouthful. Tucker puts his own meal on hold to lean over and cut it up into squares for him. It’s a sweet sight.

Wash expects further chatter from Tucker, but it quickly drifts to the silence of scraping forks instead. 

He glances at him, frets briefly whether or not he should be saying something, but relaxes as he sees that Tucker’s face has already become something more neutral and distant, distracted.

He’s a handsome guy for sure, admittedly one of the reasons Wash had been so intimidated by him in the first place, that and the fact Tucker himself clearly knows it. 

He has full lips and a broad nose, clean-shaven. His eyebrows are thick and dark, the colour of his dreadlocks that are splayed out, loose against his shoulders. There’s a slit across his right brow that Wash is unable to distinguish whether is cosmetic or not. He’s not in the loop on what’s stylish with guys Tucker’s age these days (not that Wash has ever been in the loop on what was stylish or not, even in his early twenties.)

He’s tired, Washington realises, recognises it easier without all of Tucker’s usual expressiveness. It’s hard to miss the way he’s fighting against the droop of his eyes, bags ghosting them. Tucker’s hand is dry and sore as it moves his beer bottle to his lips, his foot tapping erratically against the grubby linoleum, no doubt to keep himself awake.

Wash has a pang of guilt as he recalls his first impression when he’d first walked in through Tucker’s front door. _Lazy and messy._ Maybe if Wash was a single dad, working full-time with barely enough time to make dinner let alone anything else, his apartment wouldn’t be the tidiest place either.

He’s reminded that he isn’t the only one with problems. Other people just hide theirs better. 

He goes back to eating.

Junior, who Tucker had served up the same-sized portion to as them, impressively manages just a little over half of his meal before he pushes his plate away. He bounces in his chair and looks to Tucker expectantly.

The attention visibly brings Tucker out of his thoughts. He smiles at his son. “Alright. I guess you can go play now.”

Junior jumps down, flashes Wash another sheepish smile before he gathers his dino-gang from the table and pads out into the living room.

“You always just know what he wants like that?” asks Wash.

“Most of the time. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. When you have a kid you just kind of… know? You know?” Tucker gets up to scrape Junior’s leftovers into the garbage.

Wash nods. He doesn't know what it is to have a child, but he does know what it is to understand someone so intrinsically on that level, to communicate without the need of a single word.

“You wanna stay for dessert?” continues Tucker. “I’m sure Junior wouldn’t mind you staying a little longer. Plus Donut brought over, like, a load of ice-cream yesterday for the party. What’s your favourite flavour?”

Washington doesn’t want to intrude. “I’d really like to, but my-”

“Your cats. Right,” interrupts Tucker, looking like he’s fighting off disappointment. “I get it, man, don’t worry. I’ll call Sarge for you and see if he’s back.”

Wash swallows his thank-you before he can utter it. He feels as though he has said something wrong. He isn’t used to civilians wanting his company for longer than strictly necessary, so he’s forgotten the protocol for these kinds of things. “Hey, Tucker?” he settles on.

Tucker looks up from his phone. “Yeah?”

“You didn't have to help me out. Or feed me dinner. I, uh, really appreciate it.”

Tucker smirks at his formality. “Hey, what are friends for? Besides, I’d have been fucked if you hadn’t taken Junior yesterday, so we’re even.”

Wash ghosts back a smile of his own, relieved he seems to have saved the situation. 

Tucker is definitely bullet point number two material.


	6. On Wednesdays We Have Therapy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: did you know Meta is actually an egyptian name? we're gonna use that and pretend like _The Meta_ isnt a super out of place name in this kind of setting kek

**26 Days Remaining  
** **09:02AM  
** **Dr. Emily Grey’s Office,  
** **Downtown**

It’s Wednesday. 

For most people, Wednesdays are the middle of the week, they’re the hump day to get over before the countdown to the weekend, but for Former-Agent David Washington, Wednesdays are the centre of his current existence. They are his constant in the sea of uncertainty that is his new life, because on Wednesdays he has his early morning appointments with Doctor Emily Grey. 

She’s the latest in a long line of professionals eager to pick Washington’s brain, but unlike all the others, she’s the first therapist Wash has ever had that he hasn’t been officially placed into the care of by the United States Armed Forces. 

Dr. Grey isn’t the most conventional of therapists - Wash half-convinced she isn’t all that sane herself - but she’s trained in both psychology and psychoanalysis, and she’s most certainly made the most progress with Washington’s emotional wellbeing out of all the doctors and specialists he has seen over the years.

And, the strangest development of all, Washington likes Dr. Grey. 

She is about his age, maybe five years or so older. She’s very dark, Sudanese ancestry Wash has guessed, with short, untameable hair that frizzes in whichever direction it likes, a square nose that keeps up huge, transparent-framed glasses, a pleasant smile. He has noticed in the last three sessions her glasses need tightening, Dr. Grey constantly having to nudge them back into place. She seems a fan of bohemian jewellery, the stuff dangling from her ears, neck and arms every time he goes to see her, a contrast to her sharply pressed business attire.

She’s the first professional Wash has met to be so open with their fascination of the disturbed human psyche. It’s the kind of honesty he needs in a world filled with deception and white lies.

“So, David,” Dr. Grey is cheery as she eases into her black, industrial leather armchair. “Has anything big happened since our last session?” She blows over her coffee, rings adorning each of the fingers clasping her mug.

The room is snug but efficiently planned, the consulting area centre stage. Grey’s chair occupies one side of the coffee table whilst the patient’s sofa occupies the other. Dr. Grey’s desk is tucked out of the way by the window, adjacent bookshelves filled to the brim with well-loved hardbacks. Her PhD, MD and License to Practise are all displayed proudly on neutral walls.

The decor is where some of Dr. Grey’s eccentricities peeks through with her carnivorous plants, ceramic brain models and framed pictures of, what Wash has always assumed to be anyway, her pet reptiles. He’s never asked. Lizards kind of freak him out.

He looks up from his glass. Every week Dr. Grey would fill the same, clean one with bottled water before their session began, and every week Wash would leave it untouched on the coaster it was placed upon.

“No,” replies Wash habitually. Then he cuts himself off, goes quiet a few moments in thought.

Grey gives him space. Things tend to be a little stiff when they first begin. 

“...Actually, yes,” he continues.

If Grey is surprised, she doesn’t show it, leans forward in her chair with measured interest. “Oh?”

Wash nods in affirmation, clearing his throat. He’s a little sheepish at the undeniably good feeling of having something other than his cats and his past to share with her. “I’ve- I’ve actually started speaking with a couple of people in my building.”

Dr. Grey puffs up, chippers, “Oh, what great news!”

Wash fights the prickle of a smile.

“What are you waiting for? Tell me all about them!” Dr. Grey’s enthusiasm is genuine and contagious. 

“Okay,” Wash agrees readily as if he were following an order. “First, there’s Donut-”

Grey interrupts him with a laugh. “I’m sorry,” she says immediately. “But that name is certainly unique!”

Wash’s smile cracks open slightly in return. “Yeah, I know. It’s his last name. They all call each other by their last names for some reason. I, uh, I think that’s one of the reasons it makes them easier to talk to.”

Grey nods and finally takes a sip from her mug. She sets it down and threads her fingers together. “Understandable. Please, David, continue.”

Washington is obedient. “Yeah, alright.” He re-shifts and clears his throat again, his gaze lingering off to the left. “So, Donut. Well, he’s very flamboyant. More openly gay than me, I guess. He’s young. Early twenties. He’s a sweet guy. Very welcoming.”

Grey doesn’t fill the pause just yet, waits.

“...It’s actually a little unnerving _how_ welcoming,” Wash comes up with. “It made me a little suspicious of him at first.”

“But not anymore?”

“No, not anymore. I did one of our exercises and it made me realise it is my paranoia.”

Dr. Grey looks pleased. “Good. Your introspection has been really improving lately. Tell me more about him.”

Washington ignores how much he enjoys the praise. “Okay. I kind of already knew him, but not really. He works nights at the grocery store so he usually ends up being my cashier, but I only really met him properly last Sunday.” 

Wash trails off but Grey lets the silence linger. He hated it the first few sessions she’d done this, but Wash appreciates it now, the pauses giving him time to order his thoughts, say the things on his mind he might otherwise not.

“He invited me over to his apartment for drinks.”

“Drinks, huh?” repeats Grey, playful.

Wash flushes. “Oh, no, no. Not like that- I, uh. It wasn’t just me there. Besides, don’t you think he’s a little too young for me?”

“Do _you_ think he’s too young for you?”

For some reason Washington thinks of Tucker. “I, uh, I don’t know. Maybe? Either way he said something about sleeping with our landlord, but I couldn’t tell whether it was a joke or not.”

“Let’s say it was a joke, and putting aside his age for a minute, do you think he’s someone you would be interested in? Do you see things in him you’d want in a partner?”

Wash chews at his bottom lip. This conversation is a first. “I don’t want to ask him out on a date, if that’s what you’re getting at. I don’t want to date anyone right now.”

“I know. That’s not what I’m asking,” says Dr. Grey. “I think you’re making a good decision concentrating on yourself for the moment. What I am asking is how he makes you feel. Do you like him? Is he the kind of person you’d want in a partner?”

Washington is silent for a long while.

“Maybe,” he says finally. “I don’t know. It feels selfish to think about when Meta hasn’t even been gone a year.”

Dr. Grey shakes her head. “Letting yourself feel things isn’t selfish. Remember-“

“I know, I know,” Washington cut her off, rubbing at the back of his neck. He has to look away when greif rears its ugly head.

Grey lets him deflect, gives him the time he needs to decompress. 

After a while, she nudges a box of tissues towards him.

Wash sniffs and dabbs at his eyes with the back of his hand instead. His waterlines are red-rimmed when he looks back up. 

The tissues stay where they are.

“Shall we talk about him?” offers Dr. Grey.

The shake of Washington’s head is abrupt.

Grey softens and reaches back for her coffee. “Alright. Let’s get back on track then. How is it you and Donut started talking?”

Wash leaps at the easier question. “He offered to help me find Ari when she went missing.”

“Ari went missing?!” exclaims Grey.

“Briefly,” reassures Wash. “She’d climbed across the fire escape after I’d opened the kitchen window.”

“That must have been very stressful.”

“I handled it,” deflects Wash. “She hadn’t gone very far, just next door into Tucker’s apartment.”

“Tucker?”

“The other guy we drank with. He and Donut seem like close friends. Donut says they’ve known each other since high school.”

“And how is it spending time with your new friends?”

Washington almost corrects her, tells her they aren’t his friends, but he changes his mind at the last minute and decides to allow it. “…It was a little awkward, but I still had a nice time. Tucker and Donut did most of the talking.”

“And what did they talk about?”

“Work. Tucker’s kid. People I don’t know. You know, the usual.”

“This Tucker,” says Grey. “Why don’t you tell me what he's like?”

Wash straightens subconsciously. “He’s… I guess I’d describe him as charismatic at best, narcissistic at worst. He’s about Donut’s age. Good-looking, too. Lives at the end of my hall with his son. It was very weird how we met. He just walked up to me the other day whilst I was checking my mail and started…”

Dr Grey raises an eyebrow.

Wash loathes to recall the interaction again. “I guess he was trying to be friendly. He’s one of those people who are naturally flirtatious.”

She listens.

“I didn't react very well. I thought he was trying to make fun of me and I almost lost my temper, but I left before anything happened. By the time I got to my apartment again, I just felt panicky. Like how I feel just before a flashback.”

“Did you have one?”

Wash shakes his head, looks at his hands. “I was pissed off when I had to see him again to get Ari though, but after I spent more time with him, the more I realised I’d just been over-reacting like a massive jackass. That it was the paranoia.”

“Being paranoid doesn’t make you a jackass, David.”

Wash sighs. “Fine. But I still feel guilty for getting angry with him in the first place.”

“You’re allowed to feel angry, the important part is that you don't act out on it with violence. From what you just told me, you remained calm and removed yourself from the situation. Instead of feeling guilty for something you can’t control, you should be feeling proud of yourself by how far you’ve come, that you’re not letting your anger control you anymore, _you_ are the one in control of it. Give yourself some more credit.”

Wash feels a little sheepish at her encouragement, as he always does. “I guess so.” He shifts the subject. “You know, what makes this whole thing even weirder is that I ended up looking after his kid yesterday while he was at work.”

Dr. Grey is visibly surprised. “Geez. You have had an interesting week. How’d that come about?”

“I was his only option apparently. It’s been crazy,” says Washington. The wisp of a smile pulls at his lips despite the complaint. “I’ve enjoyed it, though,” he admits. 

Grey looks elated by his positive response. “Brilliant. This seems like the perfect time to lower your dosage a little then. Do you agree?”

Wash’s slight smile fell. He rubs at the back of his neck again. “I- uh, if you think so.”

“Yup. You’ve finished your courses, correct?”

There is a pause. Carefully, Wash says, “I’ve finished the antidepressants.”

“And your prazosin prescription?”

Washington goes silent.

“What did we talk about last week?” she scolds. “You’re not going to be able to get a proper night’s sleep at this stage if you don’t start taking the prazosin in an evening.”

“I’ve already told you I don’t need it,” points out Wash, sharper and defensive. “Besides, the next day I just feel nauseous and I have no appetite.”

“Well then tell me that so we can work together to find a solution! Goodness, what is it with you veterans and letting yourself suffer?”

Wash has a flash of irritation.

“I’m going to lower your zoloft prescription to 75 milligrams and we’ll see how that goes, “ she says. “If you take two tablets of the prazosin before bed it should ease the night terrors. Feeling nauseous and unhungry is a common side effect for the first couple of days, you can power through it. If the side effects are still adverse by next week, we can discuss your options.” 

Washington frowns.

At his reaction, Dr. Grey prompts, “You don’t agree?”

Wash’s gaze cools to steel.

“You don’t agree?” repeats the doctor.

Wash gives no verbal response.

“You don’t-”

“What do you think?”

“That I’m sensing some frustration.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re not listening to me,” shoots back Wash. “I told you I don’t need it and you’re forcing me to take it.”

“I am listening to you,” says Grey. “No one is forcing you to do anything.”

Wash’s tone becomes heated. “If you’re not forcing me to do anything then stop acting like you know what’s best for me.”

“Only you can decide what’s best for you, David.”

Washington’s hackles rise up.

“I’m just trying to offer you some relief for your symptoms. Night terrors are very unpleasant and it must be making it impossible for you to rest properly.”

“I should never have brought them up,” snaps Wash. “I don’t _want_ treatment for them.”

“Why not?”

Wash jumps to his feet. “Because I don’t want to take the fucking sleep meds!”

Dr. Grey stays seated. “That doesn’t answer my question. So tell me, truthfully this time, why do you think not taking your medication is the best course of action?”

“Because I don’t need it! How many times do I have to fucking tell you that?!”

Most people in Wash’s past life backed down when his aggression surfaced, and those that didn’t were just another name added to a long list of incidents that were, more often than not, half-heartedly investigated by The Board before being promptly dropped. They always sided with Agent Washington due to his abilities, and Wash would just end up sat down in front of _another_ therapist for _another_ month of anger management before everything blew over and returned to normal.

Apparently it’s something called _Intermittent Explosive Disorder_ , but York had often joked it was just a fancy word for being partial to a temper tantrum. 

Despite this extensive history of violence, towards his comrades, strangers and even his own mother, Dr. Grey is fearless. She stays exactly where she is and looks Wash straight in the face. “Why do you think you don’t need your medication?”

“I already told you.” Wash’s teeth are gritted, his fists tight. “Because it makes me feel sick and I can’t eat.”

“I don’t believe you,” answers Grey, calm. “I don’t think that’s the only reason, if it’s a reason at all.”

“It _is._ ”

“No, it’s not.”

Wash let slip another shout, “Yes, it fucking is!”

“I don’t believe you,” repeats Grey. She doesn’t even look remotely fazed.

“This is stupid. I don’t need anything to help me sleep. I deserve it.”

Dr. Grey seizes the last phrase like a bloodhound, pushing her glasses back into place. “You deserve it? Deserve what?”

“The fucking nightmares!”

Grey’s eyes widen ever so slightly at the revelation.

Wash’s breathing is fast and hard. He has to look away. “After what happened... I deserve to suffer. I’m was a fucking coward then and I still am now. I should've said something. I should've listened to Connie. I could've at least - avenged them - not just pretended like I was dead.”

Greys shakes her head, back on track. “Self-preservation isn’t cowardice, and, like we've talked about, you aren't to blame for the actions of your superiors. As for revenge, although it would have made you feel good in the moment, it wouldn’t have soothed the pain you’re facing today.”

“And how would you know that?” Wash is spiteful, fighting tears again.

Dr. Grey smiles softly despite her patient’s gaze being elsewhere. “Because the human condition is my specialty.”

Wash looks back to her, as weary as he is defeated.

“Why don’t you sit back down, David?”

Washington’s posture remains upright as he does as she suggests. The couch cushions move accommodatingly and he looks out the window. He is so tired. He closes his eyes.

Dr. Grey let the atmosphere settle back down. She uses it as an excuse to finish her coffee, the silence comfortable despite Wash’s outburst.

“If Meta was in your position,” she says, “if he was the one sitting across from me today, if he had done exactly as you did, do you think he should be suffering as punishment?”

Wash’s eyes snap back open. “Of course not.”

Dr. Grey doesn’t say anything else and then a look of realisation crosses Washington’s face.

“I don’t think Meta would want you to be punishing yourself for this, do you?” she says.

He knows she is right, has said this to him many times.

“I think he’d be wanting you to take your medication, don’t you?”

He rubs at the back of his neck. “...I’ll think about it.”

Grey smiles. “Alright. Did you decide to bring those photos with you like I suggested last week?”

Relieved at the change of subject, Wash nods and reaches down to untie his bag, pulls out a stack of pictures protected in a plastic sandwich bag. “What are we doing with them?”

“We’re going to look at them together. You mind if I sit with you?”

Wash shakes his head, trusting her.

The doctor moves around the coffee table and settles onto the sofa, leaves a respectable gap between her and Washington. “Let’s start by you telling me when and where each one was taken, and then after that we can go through the more important ones in more depth.”

**10:30AM  
** **Dr. Emily Grey’s Office,  
** **City Centre**

“Here.” Grey hands over Washington’s refill prescription.

“Thanks,” says Wash, folds the slip of paper in half and tucks it away into his pocket

Dr. Grey put her hand on the door handle, the bangles around her wrist jingling together gently. “I think it would be therapeutic for you to put some of the pictures we looked at today in frames. Hiding them away is just going to encourage you to bottle up your emotions.”

“Okay,” agrees Wash. He takes a breath and continues, “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“Water under the bridge!” she cheers brightly. “But thank-you. Getting everything out in the open is what therapy is all about, you know. It’s good you’re letting yourself feel your emotions.”

“But I thought I’m supposed to be keeping my anger under control.”

“Not the anger, the behaviour. The anger itself isn’t the problem. Your reactions to your emotions today were healthy and normal. It’s okay to raise your voice every once in a while when experiencing distress. It’s human nature.”

Wash swallows. Despite her reassurance, he still feels bad. Behind her calm facade, he is almost certain she must have been fearful to some degree. “Thanks, Doctor.”

“No problem. Have you thought any more about stopping by a group session?”

“No, thanks. Stuff like that isn’t really my thing,” Washington declines politely.

“Alright.” Dr. Grey gives a final, sunny smile and opens her office door. “You’re always welcome if you change your mind.”

They walk down the familiar hall together. They pass four, oak doors identical to Dr. Grey’s on the way, different doctors' names inscribed on the front in polished brass. The waiting room is empty sans the receptionist when they reach it, and Wash is glad for it. 

Being in a place like this always makes Washington feel at his most vulnerable, so the less eyes on him, the better.

“I’ll see you next week,” Wash says his farewell.

“Yeah, see you next week,” returns Grey.

Wash gives an awkward half-smile, takes a firmer grip on the bag strap over his shoulder and marches steadily through the reception, down the stone steps and out of the big, glass doors onto the street. 

The pharmacy he uses is on Main Street, so Washington walks purposely through the city centre towards the bus station. He doesn’t give much of anything around him more attention than is required to get him from point A to point B. He weaves in and out of people, drops the exact amount of change into the driver’s palm when his bus pulls in and avoids eye contact as he remains stood up at the front.

He’s more emotionally drained than usual, hoping that means the session has been a productive one.

The first bus stop on Main Street is the closest to where Wash needs to be, so he gets off there. 

The store appears empty from the outside and is empty inside, too. He goes to the counter and he hands over his prescription.

“Let’s see here,” says the elderly pharmacist, putting on his glasses. “Just you wait one moment, son, and I’ll be back in a jiffy.” He hobbles off into the back.

Wash looks around for something to do. He’s greeted with the decaying posters hung above the counter when he glances up, their flimsy paper betraying they’ve been up there for a couple of decades at least. If the eighties hairstyle on the _HIV Aware_ poster isn’t enough of a clue in itself.

After it becomes clear the pharmacist isn't returning any time soon, Wash takes to aimlessly wandering the aisles.

He thinks about what he should have for lunch. Maybe it’s time to let himself relax out of the habit of lean meats and raw vegetables. He can eat whatever he wants now, the days of regimented diet are behind him, if he wants them to be.

Maybe he could learn how to make a few heartier dishes. Like the lasagne he’d eaten yesterday. Maybe he could ask Tucker if he could-

“Planning a fun night?”

Wash is snapped out of his inner thoughts, is met with his other, tanned and smiling, friend-in-the-making: Donut. He’s swinging a basket lightly, the contents rattling about inside catching Wash’s eye. There’s packets of aspirin, purple shampoo and three cans of deodorant marketed at pre-teens.

“Uh, what?” Wash says dumbly. He is amazed a civilian has managed to sneak up on him.

“I said, ‘planning a fun night’?” Donut’s grin doubles. He nudges Washington’s shoulder with his own and wiggles his waxed eyebrows, nodding to the shelves.

Wash feels a bout of amusement once he understands. Of course he has chosen to stand in front of the contraceptives and lubricants. 

“No.” He pauses, before playing along, “Unfortunately not.”

“That’s too bad,” teases Donut, knocks a box of condoms into his basket.

“I guess. Good morning, Donut.”

“Mornin’!” Donut is as bright as ever despite the darkened bags under his eyes. Wash empathises. “What are you doing out so early? I always thought you were more of a man of the night.”

Wash ignores the innuendo. “No, I’m usually up around this time.”

Donut is briefly stunned. “Huh. When do you even sleep?”

“Good question.” Wash pushes worn hands into the comfort of his hoodie. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Power naps,” says Franklin. He rests a hand over his chest. “You should try them, Wash. You look exhausted every time I see you.”

“Probably,” he agrees. 

Wash looks back when his name is called at the counter. The floor is sticky underfoot as he walks back to collect his medication and pay.

Donut is on his heels, tone sympathetic as he inquires, “You’re sick?”

“It’s nothing,” replies Wash since it’s easier.

Donut doesn’t push it, just nods.

Washington shrugs his duffle bag off his shoulder, counts out the money from his wallet and shoves everything away inside. He wants to get the paper bag out of sight as soon as possible. The strings catch on Wash’s bag and he has to pinch the fabric together to get it to close properly.

Donut sets his shopping down onto the counter. The clink of the basket is gentle. “Is that duffle a Vietnam War one?”

Washington straightens up. “Yeah. How do you know that?”

“It looks like one of Sarge’s,” explains Donut. “His has his name on, though.” His smile turns playful. “I didn’t realise you were _that_ old.”

“Hey!” Wash crosses his arms. “It was my dad’s.”

The fabric once had his father’s name and number etched across it, although it had long since faded away in the washing machine (it had gotten dirty and Wash’s mother hadn’t realised the ink wasn’t permanent.)

Donut laughs. “I bet he was handsome.” 

Wash looks away, smiling.. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

Donut pays by card, thanks the cashier and wishes him a good morning. They walk back out onto the high street together.

“So, you doing anything fun today?” asks Donut.

Wash shakes his head, nods in the direction of their apartment building. “Just going home.”

Donut’s smile is radiating up at him when he looks back. “I still have some errands to run if you wanna come with me,” he replies. “I could use the company.”

Declination is on the tip of Washington’s tongue, but looking at Donut’s expression, feeling his sunny presence, it’s hard to tell him no. It would probably do Wash good to get out of the apartment for longer than 2 hour blocks anyway so he says, “Sure.”

Donut makes a squeal like he has just agreed to be his date to the prom, linking his arm around Wash’s. “Great! I have a few letters to mail, so we can go to the post office first, then I _need_ to buy Sarge a new jacket. His old one is completely tattered but he won’t listen to me! I bet if I switch them out he won’t even notice…”

Wash’s fondness for the young man steadily increases as Donut guides him down the street, his chatter a nice constant. 

Donut tells him about his parents in Iowa as he mails his letters, shares that he is responding to a request for him to go down for a few weeks in the summer _(“They live out on the ranch, they don’t have an internet connection - or even a landline!”)_

Next Wash is pulled around several clothing shops, realises he’d never known just how much deliberation people put into deciding on what they are going to buy. Or maybe it’s just Donut. In Wash’s case he usually just picks the first thing off the hanger as long as it fits and it isn't too bright.

“Oops, I guess I ended up buying more than I thought.” Donut has an array of shopping bags as they leave the last shop.

“You want me to carry some of those for you?” Wash offers.

“Oh, no, don’t worry. I’ve carried a ton more than this. Hey, you wanna go for coffee?” Donut rolls to a stop outside a pleasant looking building. A small, independent kind of place.

Wash deliberates pointlessly. “Alright.”

Bells jingle as Donut pushes the door, holding it open for him. Inside, Wash is hit with the soothing blast of air conditioning, taking in a breath of java beans and cinnamon. The place is packed, a popular destination it seems, and Wash is unsure they are going to find a table as they join the back of the line.

The loudness of the chatter makes Wash anxious, and Donut, ever empathetic, catches on, moving up his hand to squeeze his bicep reassuringly. Washington notices the tips of his nails are coloured white. 

“Oh my God,” blurts Donut. He squeezes around Wash’s arm a few more times, brings up another hand to clasp around the firmness present through the material of Wash’s hoodie. His bags slide up Donut’s arm. “Oh my God,” he repeats.

A man in the line next to them gives them a look, but Wash can’t find anything to do but smirk, flattered by his reaction. Donut is an endless source of entertainment, his disregard for what others thought of him reminding Wash a little of Connie.

“Oh my God,” blabbers Donut for the third time in a row.

“It’s just my arm, Donut,” says Wash, voice wobbling in amusement.

“I just- I wasn’t expecting it to be so hard!” Donut exclaims loudly.

He says it with such a wide-eyed genuineness that a bark of laughter pushes out of Wash’s mouth.

Donut laughs too, his grip loosening on Wash’s arm. “I’ve never heard you laugh before!” he gushes.

“I haven’t really had anything to laugh about.”

“It’s pretty,” Donut told him. “You should laugh more often.”

“Pretty?” replies Wash incredulously. “I don't think anything can _sound pretty_.”

“Well, it does. It _sounds pretty_.”

“Right.”

Donut looks up at the coffee house menu, humming. “I’m gonna get a chai latte, what about you?”

“Uh… coffee?”

**12:46PM  
** **Red Floor,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

“So, are you coming on Saturday?”

Washington had ended up carrying Donut’s shopping for him after all, traipsing behind him as he follows him up to his apartment. “Saturday?”

“Yeah, Saturday!” Donut replies enthusiastically. “We’re having a BBQ in the garden. I made a post about it on the wall.”

Wash’s eyebrows come together, standing to attention beside Donut as he rummages around in his bag for his keys. “What wall?”

Donut pauses as he opens his front door. “You still don’t have Facebook, do you?”

Wash shakes his head no.

“It’s settled, then,” says Donut. “You drop those by the door and meet me in my bedroom, I’m gonna have to teach you.”

Wash watchs Donut skip ahead with wide eyes. His bedroom? What? He sets down the bags as instructed and follows. 

The hallway’s structure looks pretty much the same as his own, but the walls are plastered with a flowery wallpaper. There’s a chic umbrella stand by the door, a large antique mirror hung up alongside picture frames and paintings, a side table littered with papers and an artistic lamp. 

It’s all very Donut and it feels like a home.

Wash wanders the direction Donut went, having a rough idea of where he is going from his past visit.

The bedroom is roughly what Wash had expected; open and cheery like the rest of the apartment. The sheets on the bed are a soft shade of pink, Donut currently shoving away stray clothes into draws to make the room a little more presentable.

"Come, sit." Donut gestures to a desk by the window, knocking the mouse and bringing the desktop monitor to life.

Oh. So that’s why they’re in his bedroom. Wash sits and Donut's smile soothes any awkwardness.

"I'll just go get another chair from the kitchen. Don't touch anything until I get back!"

“Okay.” Wash waits patiently, watching the background of the computer change between different, smiling pictures. It reminds him of his own gallery session with Grey earlier in the day.

He sits up in his chair as the picture shifts to one of a teenage Donut standing beside an equally youthful Tucker. Tucker’s arm is slung around Donut’s shoulder, a drunken gleam in their eyes as they grin manically for the camera.

He’s unable to help himself from looking over Tucker’s image. His dreads are shorter, suggestive and cocky as he poses in a sweat-soaked t-shirt and turquoise jeans. He has a nose ring too, the most notably different part of his appearance.

“Alright!” Donut is back, dragging a dining chair after him. “Let’s make you a Facebook profile!”

**01:11PM  
** **Donut’s Boudoir,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

“Right, now, put in your email address.”

“I don’t have an email address.”

“ _Wash._ Oh my God, you’re worse than Sarge! _”_

**01:46PM  
** **Donut’s Boudoir,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

“So click there.”

“Okay.”

“Now type in ‘Franklin Delano Donut’.”

"Del-ano?”

"D-E-L-A-N-O."

"Right."

There’s the awkward clunk of keys.

“Great! Look, there’s me! Now, click there to add me. Hey, are you hungry? I’m hungry. We should stop for lunch.”

**02:56PM  
** **Donut’s Boudoir,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

“Now he’s your profile picture!”

“Huh.”

“Now, you click here for messaging. Here for your friend requests. Here for your info. And most importantly, _here_ to look at the group’s wall!”

“Okay.” Wash memorises the different areas. “...Thanks, Donut.”

He means his words wholeheartedly, which is not an easy feat to pry out of Washington, but he is thankful, and not just for showing him the basics of social media, but for the endless kindness Donut has afforded him every time they met. 

He had really believed he was never going to have anyone to call a friend ever again, but here Donut is, offering his friendship without a second thought.

“Oh, Wash.” Donut wraps his arms around Wash’s shoulders and pulls him into a side hug. “Of course!” 

The angle is awkward, but David doesn’t care, warmth gathering in his chest that threaten to spill out in the form of tears. He holds them back, reaches a hand up to pat Donut’s shoulder, returning the affection the best he can manage and looking back to the screen in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank-you to [kia](https://rvlakia.tumblr.com/) for beta'ing the originals chapters one through six for me back in 2017 - you're a gem, sweetheart x


	7. What I do I do because I like to do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hover (on desktop) or tap (or mobile) for translations x

**25 Days Remaining  
** **07:57AM  
** **Felix & Locus’ Flat,** **  
****Downtown**

“You’re going to be late.”

“So?” Felix huffs dramatically into a throw pillow. He’s laid out flat, one leg hanging off the back of the sofa. “Who cares?

“Your boss.”

“Ha.” Felix tosses the cushion aside. “Hey. Pull a sick day with me and we can go for a drive someplace.”

A trip out of the city sounds like a great idea after all these months of restlessness. 

Vanessa Kimball’s crummy car wash is the latest in a long line of eye-gougingly dull positions Felix has had to deal with ever since they moved to this God forsaken place, but he’s betting on it being his last.

Their up-rooting had been very sudden. Felix had had to leave all their growers behind, doesn’t have enough product yet to keep dealing, nor the clientele to sell it to, but they’re close. He’s made them some desiccant, already has a little stockpile of vacuum-packed shrooms, their pantry filled with mason jars of curing bud. 

Still, he needs a couple of months to make sure they have a steady flow, time to rebuild a customer base, a network. It sucks but it is what it is. Felix might be ready for this working-for-other-people bullshit to be over, but unfortunately rent still needs to be paid and necessities still need to be bought.

“No. You can’t take a sick day your third day on the job.”

“And why the fuck not?” says Felix.

“You know why. Stop being brainless.”

He jerks up. “ _Brainless?_ Look at you. You’ve been nothing but a fucking bore ever since you started going to that group.”

When he gets no response, Felix glares into the kitchen at the back of his partner's head. The filled sink clinks and sloshes, the other man, Samuel Ortez, setting a breakfast spoon onto the drying rack.

“It’s alright for you,” continues Felix. “You’ve got it cushy whilst I’m left working at all these dead end shitholes.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Oh, do not even fucking start that.”

The silent treatment returns.

“I would’ve still been at that movie theatre if that cunt hadn’t ratted me out. Anything would be better than this place. Especially working with that _Lavernius_ guy. Ugh.”

The drain gurgles as it’s unplugged, Sam running the faucet after.

“...C’mon, take the day off,” pushes Felix.

“No,” says Sam.

“Why not?” complains Felix. “It’s just one day. Oh, come _on_. Stop being so uptight.”

Sam dries his hands, is now wiping down the counter.

Felix flops back, thumps the back of his heel against the sofa in agitation.

“If I’m dead, then who's supposed to keep you out of trouble?” replies Sam steadily.

Felix lets out a snort. “I can keep myself out of trouble.”

He’s acknowledged with an unbelieving, almost humoured, huff. 

Hauling himself up, the softness of carpet turns to the solidness of tile under Felix’s bare feet. 

He comes up behind Sam silently, the man staying where he is as Felix rests his nose between his shoulder blades. He slips a purposeful arm around him, hand snaking to his inner thigh. He immediately finds what he’s looking for, deliciously hung and Felix’s property.

He peeks around a bicep, can see his reflection in the kitchen window. Sam has a rather angry resting expression, but Felix likes it. Likes his brows, jet black and bushy, the way the corner of his mouth always twists to a grimace, the little stray hairs that never seem to be able to stay put in his ponytail, spilling out over his forehead.

There’s an intensity about him. Furrowed and sharp-angled, matching the jagged scars that take up the entirety of his face. It turns Felix on when strangers would avert their gaze from him—or even, sometimes, cross the street—makes him feel like he’s tamed something untameable. Like he owns something dangerous. Owns Sam like he’d once owned his extensive, pristine knife collection.

(Yet another prized possession lost in the move. Felix misses his favourite, well-loved karambit.)

“You’ve been practising,” Felix murmurs, switching tactics.

“Yes,” says Sam.

“What for?” says Felix.

“I’d rather know when I’m being insulted,” says Sam.

Felix’s teeth are sharp where they grin, against his arm. “Don’t act like you don’t get off on it,” he replies, squeezing him. “Take the day off.”

“No,” repeats Sam but doesn’t reach out to stop him.

“I said,” Felix tightens his grip. “take the day off.”

Sam’s breath catches but he keeps his resolve, gives a restrained, “No. I’m going to work and so are you.”

Felix’s free hand flashes up to take a fistful of Sam’s hair, the force on his crotch twisting violent and mean.

Sam swallows a grunt of pain, tries to blindly support himself on the countertop. “Felix―”

“Shut the fuck up,” hisses Felix. 

He lands a kick to the back of Sam’s knee, abandoning his cock so that there’s nothing stopping him from falling timber to his knees, which he does. Sam makes another quiet, pained noise. His hand goes to the one tangled in his long locks, but it doesn’t work too hard at fighting Felix off.

“Don’t touch me, you ugly freak.”

Sam drops his touch from Felix’s wrist like it’s a hot potato, allows Felix to drag his head around from side-to-side, says nothing.

“You feel that? Am I hurting you?”

In his grip, ragdoll, Sam nods once.

Felix twists. “I said: _Am I hurting you?_ ”

“Yes,” hisses Sam, like gravel. 

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, you’re hurting me.”

“Good.” Felix smiles.

Getting better leverage, he swings Sam’s face forward. It’s the satisfying crunch that lets him know his nose was successfully broken rather than the wisp of a whimper that breaks free from Sam’s throat.

“Oh, my poor baby. Did that sting?” Felix grinds his face against the cheap wood, leaves behind a pretty mess for Sam to clean up later.

Sam gives a soft grunt but otherwise offers up nothing. Felix jerks back his head, baring his throat and face.

“Red suits you,” he tells him.

Sam remains silent and lax, stares back with apathy.

How dull. Felix had been hoping for more of a fight out of him. He manhandles him a little more, poking the bear.

Nothing comes of it.

Felix sighs. He side-eyes the time. “...Ugh, _fine._ You and that massive stick you have lodged up your ass win. Go spend all day in a stuffy office. See if I care.”

He shoves Sam sideways, the man catching himself on his elbow.

“You’re insufferable,” Sam finally slurs, cupping a hand to his nose. He leans forward, an attempt at not drooling any more blood over his work shirt. A sticky pool has already gathered against the kitchen floor, not the first of it’s kind and certainly not the last.

“Oh, cry me a river about it,” says Felix, a hand on his hip and disdain in his face. “Now go clean up and drive me to work.”

On wobbly knees, Sam does as he’s told.

**01:12PM  
** **Shell Oil,  
** **Main Street**

“I’ve been dreaming about this dog all morning.” Tucker is practically drooling as they exit through sliding doors. The hotdog steams from it’s bun, loaded with crispy onion, cheese and pickles, lashings of condiments.

“You’re a brave man eating gas station food,” replies Felix.

“I’ve trained for it my entire life.” Tucker punches at his gut with a free hand. “Iron stomach.”

Felix gives a friendly laugh, cracking open his bottle of gatorade. His own lunch waits for him in his bag; leftover chicken wings from last night, a protein bar, a banana. 

They settle on a low-cut brick wall just outside, had sat there together for their lunch break yesterday, too. Human beings are predictable like that, Felix thinks. Find something that works and stick to it. What a bore.

The morning had dragged but, admittedly, hadn’t ended up being as much of a slog as Felix had decided it was going to be that morning. He still would have preferred the day with Sam though, the substituted company terrible, the same team he’d started with

Each of them had whined a little more about their pathetic backstory his way, as people always did when they found a new face to spit their brain-numbing drivel at. Felix had paid attention, although barely; Palomo and Jenkins are both leaving for college at the end of the month, Kimball’s one last summer job before they high tail it out of there to their respective campuses.

Andersmith’s the most straight-forward of the bunch. Family man. Makes it clear he’s there for the paycheck, not to make friends, doesn’t involve himself in the idle chatter of the teenage brats and the obnoxious, loud-mouthed Tucker.

Talking of Tucker, Felix can feel him watching him out the corner of his eye as he lights up a cigarette. “Want one?” he offers.

“Nah, man,” answers Tucker, mouth full of bread and pig intestine. “Don’t have the money to be getting back into that habit again.”

“Why, you in debt or something?” Felix flicks his lighter shut with a satisfying click, extinguishing the flame.

Tucker’s responding, awkward laugh is all Felix needs to know.

“Shit, really? A lot?”

“Uhhh.” Tucker swallows. “To be honest, it’s less about the debt and more about my kid.”

“ _You_ have a _kid_?” exclaims Felix before he can think better of it.

Tucker’s next laugh is a lot more genuine. “Yeah, I have a kid. Why’s that always so surprising to everyone?”

“You just don’t seem like the type, I guess,” snickers back Felix, flicking ash.

“That’s true,” admits Tucker. “Does it make more sense if I told you it was a teen pregnancy?”

“Yes, actually.” 

Tucker barks a louder laugh this time, muffles it with more hotdog.

Pinching his smoke between his lips, Felix reaches down for his backpack. As he flips open the top, hard plastic skitters across the concrete from an unopened pocket. Tucker grabs it before he can, turning the ID over with his thumb and forefinger.

“Isaac?” reads Tucker. “I thought your name was Felix?”

“It is.” Felix snatches it back.

“Then why does—”

“None of your fucking business, that’s why.”

Judging from Tucker’s expression, his response had been too much. Felix has a brief inner scramble to collect his cool, slide the mask back into place.

“Sorry,” he says, schools himself into a demure performance. “It’s just… it’s just a little complicated is all.”

“No worries, dude.” Tucker remains wide-eyed but is trying to smile, to brush it off.

“It’s the name they gave me when I first came here,” explains Felix, as pitiful as he can manage. “My adoptive parents. If you can even call them that. I’ve been trying to change it for years, but you know what these judges are like, old white guys making everything difficult. They don’t get it.”

Nodding along, Tucker relaxes with understanding and Felix feels accomplished he’s turned the tables so effortlessly. Idiot, he thinks. One mention of _the man_ and he always has people like Lavernius Tucker eating out his hand, making them think they’re on the same side.

“So, I’m a little sensitive about it,” Felix finishes with, puffs on his cigarette. “Sorry.”

“Hey, it’s all cool. I get it.” Tucker accommodates, takes another bite of his lunch and gets ketchup around his mouth.

Idiot, Felix thinks again. Stupid, repulsive, gullible idiot. “Thanks, Tucker.”

“No problem.” Tucker wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “And I’m with you on that whole parent thing. My step mom’s a massive bitch.”

“Aren’t all step moms?”

Tucker grins. “Aren’t all women?”

“Yikes.” Felix lets out one long, last puff of smoke before he crushes the filter against the wall. “Someone’s not on good terms with their baby mama.”

“Oh, dude, you have _no_ idea…”

Felix would rather not listen, but he does anyway, filing away little pieces of information he might need for later. He eats the packup Sam made him as Tucker drones on about the mother of his brat, Kai, and the brat itself, Junior. Fucking _Junior_. Looks like Lavernius is so brain dead he couldn’t even come up with an original name for his own spawn. 

From what Felix gathers, kid turned out retarded and Tucker’s girlfriend jumped ship the minute she caught on. Kind of hilarious in his honest opinion.

Their hour almost up, they head back to Kimball’s.

“So, what’s the story behind the tats?” asks Tucker on the way.

“Depends which one,” answers Felix. He’s not looking forward to the long afternoon ahead, to having to keep on a smile for such pathetic, annoying people.

“What about that one?” Tucker prods Felix just above the elbow and it takes him everything in his power not to slap the touch away.

“The lotus?” he confirms instead.

“The flower thing,” says Tucker.

“It’s a lotus,” corrects Felix.

“The _lotus_ then.”

Felix grits a smile. “The Buddhists say it represents a spiritual awakening. A reminder to keep one’s Locus of Control internal.”

“Locus of what now?”

“Nevermind,” sighs Felix. “It’s more for my soulmate than for me anyway.”

“Your fucking _soulmate_?” exclaims Tucker with a huge grin, obviously aiming for ridicule.

“Yeah, _my fucking soulmate_ ,” says Felix, unashamed as he stares Tucker down. “The love of my lives. Our fates entwined as we die, and die, and die again. My second self.”

“Are you high?” Tucker’s expression soothes a little of Felix’s boredom, entertained by it. 

Felix laughs, playing with his tongue stud. “I wish.”

“Didn’t take you to be the type into all that.”

“You should come over some time,” invites Felix. “Drop acid with us. Open your worldview a little.”

“With you and your soulmate?” Tucker seems caught between amusement and disbelief.

“Yeah. With me and my soulmate.” Felix gives nothing away.

They both come to a stop outside Kimball’s office. Tucker pushes worn hands into his pockets, fidgets. “...She hot?”

Felix smirks. “Very.”

**09:20PM  
** **Chorus,  
** **Downtown**

Thursday nights are always pretty quiet at Chorus, downtown’s bougiest gay bar. Felix likes it there. The music isn’t complete trash and they keep their more obnoxious events (drag acts, techno nights) for the weekends where they belong. Felix had originally tried to sweet talk his way into a job working the bar, but the owner, Donald Doyle, had been incredibly anal over wanting thorough references.

“Get me another,” says Felix from across the table, nudges his empty Sam’s way. 

“Is that wise?” Sam enquires, own beer still half full, slippery with little beads of condensation.

"Just buy the fucking drink, Lo," Felix snaps impatiently. 

With a sigh Sam gets up to fulfill his command, taking Felix’s finished bottle with him back to the bar.

Felix uses the time to pick grit out from under his fingernails, still aching from the full body workout that came from scrubbing rich assholes’ cars inside-out all day. 

He grits his teeth in resentment. _He_ should be the one having _his_ car cleaned. Not the other way around. He misses his car. Still holds it against Sam for making him leave it behind at that crummy motel a few states back. They could have at least sold it for parts. 

He sighs and slumps into the booth. They could have done something fun today and instead he’d spent it getting tired and sore for a measly six dollars an hour. 

A new bottle appears before Felix, the broad fingers around it unwrapping as Sam slips back opposite.

“Get in much trouble this morning?” prods Felix. He wraps his lips around the beer, taking a leisurely mouthful.

Sam levels off his gaze with one of his own. “They were understanding.”

“I’m sure,” purrs back Felix. He tilts the neck of his bottle at Sam’s nose. “Did you set that yourself?”

Sam nods. He’s done a good job, barely a crook in it. Bruises have bloomed black beneath his eyes during the day, a superficial gash garnishing it’s bridge, dusted with swelling of its own.

“Bet that was a bitch.”

Sam shrugs impassively and Felix snorts.

“You’re a freak,” he reminds him, taking another sip. He pointedly sets his drink down beside his coaster, stretching out his feet under the table so that they touch Sam’s ankles. “A hot freak, though. My hot freak.”

“Hm.” Sam averts his eyes to the wall behind him.

“Don’t be like that, Locus,” says Felix, a special pet name just for Sam. “I know you liked it really.”

“We agreed not the face.”

Felix gives a dramatic sweep of the eyes.

“People will start asking questions.”

“Boo. Boring. What is _up_ with you recently? I wasn’t kidding this morning when I said that circle jerk you keep insisting on going to is cramping your style.” Felix flashes a finger between them. “Our style.”

“There’s only so many accidents one person can have before it becomes suspicious.”

“Then let them be suspicious. Why’d you even care? Give it a couple months and neither of us will need these jobs anymore anyway. I actually think I've found our first customer.”

“I like it there.”

Felix laughs.

Sam remains straight-faced, finally looks at him again.

“Wait,” says Felix, “you’re not kidding.”

Sam doesn’t give further input.

“Are you serious right now? You wanna keep working in a fucking cubicle? Nine-to-five? Two-day weekend?”

Sam nods.

Felix laughs again, this time without humour. He drags blunt nails through his undercut. “So, what? I’m supposed to just run our business all by myself? That’s that?”

Another nod, this one given with a weighty kind of finality.

“Well, shit,” says Felix, unimpressed. He guzzles down more beer.


	8. Side Effects of Tylenol Include:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, please ensure work skins are 'on' for this chapter to be read in it's intended form :) x

**24 Days Remaining** **  
** **8:15AM** **  
** **Donut’s Boudoir,** **  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

+16 469806927  
  
**Thursday** 10:15 PM  
Fine then. If that’s how you want it.  
I always knew you were fucking him behind my back, by the way.  
I’m not as stupid as you seem to think I am.  
**Friday** 12:05 AM  
Fucking whore.  
I hope this is all worth it so you get to choke on Tucker’s cock.  
Until he gets bored of you, that is.  
**Friday** 1:23 AM  
I’m sorry  
Frankie, I’m sorry  
Please pick up  
Please  
I love you  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Friday** 4:11 AM  
I hope you catch herpes stupid fucking bitch  
**Friday** 9:00 AM  
This is all his fault, you know that?  
**Friday** 12:33 PM  
He doesn’t care about you like I do  
**Friday** 7:58 PM  
Franklin. I need to talk. It’s urgent.  
**Saturday** 1:30 AM  
Stupid whore.  
  
  
**Saturday** 9:25 AM  
I saw those pictures from last night. I hope you’re having fun after you abandoned me for that lowlife loser, you selfish prick. After everything I’ve done for you  
I’m actually surprised you weren't jumped going around downtown dressed like that  
This is exactly why you need me. I’d never let you do something so stupid. It’s like you want to get beaten up  
**Saturday** 11:45 PM  
I hope you and your half a brain cell do get jumped.  
You deserve it after what you did to me.  
**Sunday** 6:01 AM  
I’m sorry, I was drunk  
**Monday** 5:23 PM  
Please pick up  
**Tuesday** 5:19 PM  
Please  
**Wednesday** 5:24 PM  
Please.  
**Yesterday** 5:23 PM  
I love you. You said you loved me. Were you lying to me?  
**Today** 12:58 AM  
You were, weren’t you?  
**Today** 5:00 AM  
If you love me, you’ll pick up  
**Today** 6:47 AM  
FUCK YOU  
**Today** 8:15 AM  
I can see you’re reading these  
Fine. If you don’t pick up, then I’m just gonna have to go over there.  
Ill call cops  
So you ARE there huh?  
Hahahaha  
Call the cops  
You really think the police are gonna care about a couple of faggots and their lovers quarrel?  
We r not lovers  
Maybe not, but do you think they’re gonna stick around after I tell them we are?  
Do not cum 2 my apartment  
Then call me.

Donut stares at Doc’s last message numbly until the screen cuts to black, auto-locking.

Anxiety swirls sticky and ugly in his stomach, effortlessly cornered in a way he’d promised himself, and all of his friends, would never happen again.

It’s not how he had been anticipating his morning to go. Ideally he should already be asleep, gotten home from his graveyard shift about twenty minutes ago. He’d just wanted to give his inboxes a quick check before bed, already changed into his sleepwear; an oversized shirt he’d snagged from Tucker years ago, pyjama shorts. 

Now he was wide awake, mug of milk on the coffee table going cold, blister pack of Tylenol PM yet to be popped. 

Maybe it’s because he’s so achy tired. Maybe it’s because a small, insecure part of himself still holds out for Doc’s affection. Either way, despite the reason, Donut unlocks his phone, re-opening their conversation and putting Doc’s number into the dialler.

His almond-shaped nail hovers close to that green call button. Too close for comfort. 

What is he doing?

Lips pressing into a determined, thin line, Donut swipes back to their IMs.

No.  
Fine.  
Since you wanna be difficult, I’ll just have to come around.

His heart leaps up into his throat.

Do not cum to my apartment, Frank  
Im serious  
Ill call the police

Donut’s chest thuds faster with every passing second his texts are ignored.

He can’t believe he’s been so stupid. He shouldn’t have responded. Shouldn’t have entertained him. Should’ve listened to Tucker, to Simmons and Grif, to Sarge, all of them unanimously telling him to just _block the damn number._ But Donut never could. Not after that evening he’d gotten a call from the ER, put down as Doc’s emergency contact.

His instinct is for Sarge’s help, so he follows that. He knows there’s a big possibility he and Lopez have already set off on their quad bikes, but he calls anyway, taps the speaker's volume up to it’s max setting.

It takes five nail-biting rings, but it goes through.

“Yeah?”

“Hi!” chirps Donut.

“...Mornin’.” Sarge already sounds suspicious.

“Morning! How’s the trekking going?”

“Fine,” grumbles down the line. “We just about to set off. Why, what’s wrong?”

“Can’t a guy just call for a catch up? Jeez-louise, mister.” Donut aims for playful but misses, gripping at his shirt.

“Donut.” Sarge sees straight through him. “What’s wrong?”

Unspoken gratitude fills Donut as his self-sabotage is deflected. “Nothing’s—Okay, fine, you’re right. I might’ve—actually, first you gotta promise me you’re not gonna do anything stupid.”

He listens to Sarge’s concerned exhale. “This ain’t about that dirtbag, is it?”

Donut doesn’t answer right away. “It’s my fault,” he admits quietly. “I messed up.”

“But you’re safe?” Sarge is stern.

“Yeah.” Donut straightens. “I’m okay. I’m in my apartment but—he’s said he’s gonna—he’s gonna turn up here and I don’t know what—”

“That motherfucker,” interrupts Sarge. “I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna lock your door, and when I get back there, that piece a’ work’s gon’ get a taste of the barrel of my shotgun.”

“No!” Panic shoots through Donut, begging, “No, please don’t do that. Please. _Please._ ”

“I already told him what’d happen if he came ‘round again.”

“No, no. Please, don’t. Please—”

“You stay put,” commands Sarge.

“You can’t!” cries Donut, but it’s too late, all for nought. The line has already cut out. 

He tries desperately to call back but reaches nothing but voicemail.

“Oh, no, no, no.” Donut cups his own face, worrying his bottom lip through his teeth. 

What a mess he’s gotten himself in. This is all his fault. His vision threatens to blur but he gets a control on it, launching to his feet. There’s not a second to waste. This is mayday mode. 

He checks the time. Sarge should be another forty minutes at least getting back from the quad track. He needs a plan. One that doesn’t end with a gaping hole in the back of his ex-boyfriend’s head and Sarge behind bars. Donut would never be able to live with himself if that happened.

“Tucker,” mumbles Donut. Fridays are his days off.

Tucker <3  
  
**Yesterday** 6:10 PM  
Yo, u got any batteries  
How big?  
10 inches, bow chika bow wow  
I need AAs  
Sure  
Also tens a bit much, Id say 7 ;)  
Ouch...

Donut’s too stressed to even crack a smile, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Have u dropped J off yet?  
Yeah, y

Donut lets out a jittery, relieved noise.

Sarge is gonna kill doc  
LOL what’s he posted this time  
No, Tucker, Im being serious, doc said he’s cumin her n i called sarge n he said he’s gona shoot him  
Holy fucking shit WHAT  
Im cumin over  
Dude I’m at work  
Its fryday????  
Overtime  
WUT AM I GONA DO  
I don’t know!  
Thing one and two?  
At diner, obviously!!!!  
I was only trying to help but fuck me I guess  
Sorry  
Lopez?  
With sarge at track  
Shit.  
Uh……  
Catguy?????  
Who  
Wait, u mean wash  
Yeah, ask him. He told me he’s a vet so I bet he can scare him off easy

Donut frets. It would be unfair to involve David in this, especially when their friendship is so new. He seems like the type easily spooked and Donut doesn’t want that happening, likes Wash too much, wants to soothe some of the loneliness that hovers over his head like a cloud.

I dont know  
Either him or the cops, dude

Tucker’s right even if Donut doesn’t want him to be.

Hyperaware time is of the essence, he knows he needs to make a decision at this fork in the road before him. 

He snatchs up his hearing aids from the table and heads for the door.

**8:30AM** **  
** **Blue Floor,** **  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

The last couple steps up to Wash’s floor cause a deep, comforting throb deep inside the flesh of his calves as he crosses over them.

It’s a good feeling. In general he’s feeling pretty good for a morning. He’d taken his sleeping meds last night and had slept a solid ten hours. Nine until seven, through his alarm, had forgotten how it felt to be so alert.

He’s ready for a shower, the fabric of his jogging top stuck against his back.

It’s a surprise when he rounds that last corner to find Donut loitering about—seems like he’s intent on continuing to do that, popping up in Wash’s day-to-day when he least expects him to.

“Wash, hi!” he’s greeted, and it sure is difficult not to get an eyeful of the smooth, tanned legs Donut has on display.

It’s not particularly Wash’s thing; he likes his men hairy and stronger in the thigh, but Donut is still a man, and Washington is still lonely, reminded of just how much he aches for some kind of companionship in his bed that isn’t four-legged and whiskered.

“Hello, Donut,” he returns, a little stiffer than intended. Deciding to make the effort, he takes a stab at continuing, “Waiting for Tucker?”

Donut shakes a no and, upon being closer, Wash notices how red his cheeks are. “Not Tucker. Golly, this sure is embarrassing but… I was actually hoping you’d be in.”

“Me?” It’s not what Wash is expecting.

“Yeah. Can we,” Donut catches Wash’s elbow, “talk inside?”

It’s then Wash catches something isn’t right. Without prying for further explanation, he gives a firm, “Of course.”

He’s rewarded by Donut with a thankful, little smile.

At the sound of their entrance, Ari and Skyler are immediately in the hall, peering up at them and yowling.

“Hello, kitties!” All evidential worry leaves Donut for the time being as he squats down to pet them.

The pair respond with their usual, unrelenting affection, bumping his palms and shins with their heads.

“Oh, they’re so friendly! Hi! Hi!” He looks up at Wash. “This one’s Ari, right? The one I met before?”

“Yeah.” Wash shuffles around Donut, the hallway narrow. He unzips his hoodie.

“And the other one?”

“Skyler,” he answers, leaning down to stroke a hand through her tortoiseshell coat. 

“And where’s the other one from your profile picture?”

“Probably on top of the fridge or my wardrobe.”

“Can I meet her, too?”

“He doesn’t really like people,” Wash shares before Donut can get too excited.

He feels a little exposed having someone inside his apartment, anxious as to what Donut wanted to speak with him about exactly. He rubs at the back of his neck.

“Can I get you something to drink-”

“Maybe he can-”

They speak simultaneously, interrupting one another.

“Sorry,” says Wash. “You go first.”

Donut comes up from his crouch. He smiles. “Maybe he can learn to like me.”

“In that case, don’t come crying to me when he bites you,” replies Wash. Remembering his manners, he adds on, “Come in.”

“I think I have a pretty good track record with animals, actually!” pipes back Donut.

Skyler and Ari stay on Washington’s heels all the way to the kitchen, Donut not too far behind.

“Have a seat,” he says once they’re inside, the room just as bare and impersonal as every other room in the flat. “I was gonna make coffee, you want one?”

“I’d love one,” replies Donut, “but I—this can’t wait.”

He’s fidgeting in his seat when Wash looks round. “Right,” he says. “Just let me feed my cats and I’m all ears.”

Donut’s returning smile is bright but nervous.

Epsilon makes his appearance to scoff down breakfast and bolt, Skyler disappearing, too, once she’s finished. Ari decides to stick around, rubbing her body up against Wash’s legs when he sits down, purring lazy.

“How can I help you, Donut?” he asks, plain and straight-to-the-point.

“Gosh, this is so embarrassing. Really embarrassing but you see—it’s about my ex-boyfriend,” Donut blurts. “He’s gonna show up here soon and I need him out of here before Sarge gets back.”

Washington presses the tips of his fingers together, leaning forward. “And you need my help with that?”

Pink with shame, Donut nods miserably. The expression doesn’t suit him and Wash dislikes seeing the way he’s all drawn in, arms wrapped around himself for self-comfort. “I’m scared something real bad is gonna happen if he won’t leave.”

“Like what?” Wash presses gently, wants more context so that he can be of better service.

“Like Sarge’ll put him in the hospital.” Donut’s voice is small. “Maybe even kill him.”

The picture before Wash becomes a little clearer. “This ex-boyfriend, he’s hurt you?”

Donut doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to, his eyes tell Washington everything he needs to know.

“Okay.” Wash feels the burn of something he needs to keep under complete control if he’s to help his new friend with this. Donut’s wish is to keep this man _out_ of hospital, after all. He silently counts to ten before he continues, “So, what’s the plan?”

Relief softens Donut’s anxious posture and Wash has never felt so thankful for Dr. Grey and her anger management exercises. “You see, I was hoping you could help me with that…”

**8:51AM** **  
** **Outside BloodGulch Apartments,** **  
** **BloodGulch Avenue**

Although unsure what exactly he had been expecting, Donut’s ex-boyfriend is not the man Wash had envisioned going down to find outside from Donut’s behaviour earlier.

Maybe I got it wrong, thinks Washington as he sees him for the first time.

He’s a wheedley guy, plain-looking in an aubergine dress shirt and khakis, minified glasses that make his eyes all beady. He stands almost a foot shorter than Wash, shorter than _Donut_ , too. Balding but rather baby-faced. Placing an age on him turns out to be a difficult, ambiguous task because of it. He’s white, not a lot of sun to him, purple rings under his frames. Worn out. Poor sleep it would seem, much like everyone in their shitty city.

What’s clearest to him is that Donut, for sure, is miles out of this guy’s league.

“Go home, Doc,” opens Donut, bolder than expected.

Doc looks past him. “Who are you?”

“Franklin’s boyfriend,” responds Wash easily, following along with their agreed-upon script and putting a hand on Donut’s shoulder.

“His what?” Doc blinks. That obviously wasn’t the answer he was expecting.

Bloodgulch, thankfully, isn’t a main route commuters tend to take to work, many of the surrounding apartments already emptied, so there aren’t swarms of people to worry about, no one to get in the way of.

“You’ve found another one then, I see,” continues Doc, finding his voice again.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” bristles Donut.

Wash is about to tell Donut not to engage but isn’t given the room to.

“You know, it’s just sad that you would go this far,” says Doc. There’s this anxious kind of concern about him, a pathetic warble in the way he speaks that sets Wash’s teeth on edge.

“What are you talking about?” says Donut.

“That you would ask me to come out here just to humiliate me.” 

Donut’s head shakes. He looks back up at Wash, blue eyes wide with an alarmed plea for him to stay in his corner, that it’s a lie. It’s unnecessary. Washington doesn’t buy it for a second. He squeezes reassurance into Donut’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry you’re caught up in all this nonsense,” continues Doc, aiming back at Wash. “What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, I’m Frank DuFresne. It’s nice to meet you.”

“That isn’t going to work,” says Wash. “So you can stop trying.”

“Sorry?” feigns Doc.

“I know what you’re doing. And it isn’t going to work. So you can drop the act.”

“Act? I have no idea what he’s gotten into your head or what you’re implying but—”

“Enough.” Wash’s patience is already wearing thin and he makes it plain.

Agent Washington knows emotional warfare when he sees it. He’s too well-versed to have the wool pulled over his eyes, even if he is a little rusty. Reading an opponent's bluff could very well mean the difference between living another day in his old line of work: to see the failed negotiation before it happened, the concealed weapon, the fake intel from a prisoner.

After it dawns on Doc he isn’t getting anywhere, he switches back to Donut. “Look. I’m still willing for us to talk this out. Because I care about you and I know you’re not coping without me. So tell your friend here to go home so that we can go talk about this in private like adults.”

Donut is rigid beneath Washington’s palm. Wash protects him from having to reply, answering for him, “We can talk about this like adults here.”

Wash is hit with a pitying gaze. “Jeez,” says Doc. “He really has done a number on you, huh?”

“I don’t wanna talk to you,” Donut speaks up, although less brazen, like he’s losing steam.

“If you didn’t want to talk to me, then why come down here at all?” counters Doc.

“Because _I_ wanted to get a good look at you,” replies Wash, squeezing Donut a little more assurance that he’s on top of it.

Doc’s passive smile doesn’t falter. “Is that a threat?”

“Are you planning on sticking around to find out?”

“So you are threatening me.”

“Looks that way.”

“Wash…” pipes up Donut, anxious.

“It’s alright,” replies Wash. He guides Donut behind himself, informs Doc, “We’re not playing this game with you anymore. It’s time for you to leave.”

Doc talks past him, at Donut, “I come all the way out here and you—”

“He’s already told you he’s not talking to you. _I’m_ talking to you and _I’m_ telling you it’s time to—”

“This is just like you,” continues Doc, talking over him. “Making a public scene. Embarrassing me and yourself.”

It takes Washington everything in his power not to sock the guy there and then, to stop his voice from rising. “The only person embarrassing you is _you_ right now, buddy. Now walk away.”

Finally he captures back Doc’s focus. “I don’t know what he’s told you, but our relationship has absolutely nothing to do with you. You think because you got your dick sucked by him in the alleyway behind Roosters that it makes you special? Oh wait, that was the last one. My mista—”

Nostrils flared, the molten inside Washington finally spills over. Before he even realises what’s happening, he has a fistful of Doc’s unironed collar, hauling him up onto the tips of his toes with ease. The movement sends a satisfying ripple up the muscle of Wash’s arm, the kind no amount of bicep curls can ever match.

He goes deaf to Donut’s panic behind him, blind to the passerby who stop to gawk, that familiar red mist settling over like an old friend.

“I want you to listen very carefully,” he growls, “because I am not going to repeat myself again.”

Nose-to-nose, Wash is so close he can smell Doc’s sour morning breath. He is pallor from the shock, limp-gripped around Wash’s strong wrist, gasping like a fish. For the first time, he has nothing to counter with.

Washington says, “When I let go you have two options: option A, you run that stupid mouth of yours again and I kick the shit out of you, or option B, you go home and you stop harrassing my friend.”

Doc just gasps.

“Do you understand?” seethes Wash, rags him a little in his grip.

Up-and-down, Doc nods rapidly.

With that, Washington lets his palm go flat. Doc stumbles backwards, catching himself on a parking meter. 

Wash glares him off as he tucks tail and flees, finally registering something frantically tugging at his arm.

He turns. It’s Donut. He’s distressed.

Present reality snaps back into place. A small audience is staring. There’s a few camera phones. Donut is borderline hyperventilating, calling Wash’s name over-and-over, begging him to calm down.

“I’m calm,” he hears himself say.

Trying to claw out of his numbness, he grabs for the back of his hood, jamming it up over his head. Donut takes his shaking hand, hurrying them both back inside, away from the situation.

“Donut,” he says once they’re back in the lobby, dry-mouthed. “Donut, I’m so sorry.”

He’s tackled so hard it snuffs the air out of his lungs for a brief moment, freezing up at the attack before realising he’s being hugged. “It’s alright,” Donut says to him over and over, “It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright…”

Wash just stands there motionless, arms tense by his sides, the heavy thump of his heart rushing in his ears.

“Are you okay?” Donut pulls back, holds Wash in place by his tingling arms.

“Yes,” lies Washington. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” sighs Donut, finally withdrawing his touch. “Gee, that got my blood pumping.”

Seems it’s all over in the nick of time, as before Washington can reply, Sarge’s janky off-roader comes tearing up the street.

Through the front entrance with a bang, Sarge’s face is filled with murderous rage. “Where is that son of a’ bitch?!”

Donut leaps to intercept Sarge from reaching his office door. “He’s gone! He’s gone, Sarge, he’s not here!”

That throws Sarge through a loop, fists tight by his sides, looking about as angry as Wash had just felt.

“Everything’s fine now,” calms Donut, much like he had with Wash, too. Slim hand pressing into one of Sarge’s broad, inked arms. “Wash sorted it. Take a breath, okay? It’s alright.”

Everything winding down, Donut retells what happened. Or at least, a condensed version of events; leaves out Doc’s manipulation, calls what Wash did _scaring him off_ and waves around a dismissive hand with a smile like the whole thing was nothing but a little inconvenience.

Washington doesn’t correct him. Instead he hovers rather awkwardly, unsure whether he’s supposed to stay or go. Anxiety has it’s claws in him.

When Donut’s explanation is said and done, Wash receives a curt nod from Sarge that he returns, stood to attention. “Alright then,” Sarge says, and it seems that’s that.

There’s a lull, but just before it borders uncomfortable, Donut fixes it.

“Phewie. That sure tied itself up nice and tight, huh? I sure am ready for my beauty rest now,” he says, already brightened back up into his regular disposition.

“Better get yourself back to bed then,” replies Sarge.

“I better, uh, be going up, too,” adds Wash, still a little shaken by his loss of control, how ready he’d been to pummel the weedy asshole into the pavement if he hadn’t retreated.

The exact thing Donut had trusted him _not_ to do.

“I sure am sorry about all this,” says Donut as they all head up together; Sarge ahead, Donut lagging behind beside Wash. “It was unfair of me to ask you to be the muscle or whatever.”

“It’s no problem,” dismisses Wash. “I shouldn’t have put my hands on him.”

Donut shakes his head just before they part ways, smile gentle. “It pays off to be a little hot-headed sometimes. And you made sure no one got hurt, which was what I wanted, so thank-you.”

“It’s no problem,” Wash can only think to repeat himself. He keeps close to his chest just how close the last thread had been to snapping, be that responsible or selfish, even he isn’t sure.

Donut pats his arm. “Well,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” says Wash.

“Yeah! The BBQ, Wash! I sent you an invite.”

Washington shifts. “Uh, I didn’t see anything in my mailbox…”

“On FaceBook, silly!” Donut puts his hands on his hips. “Don’t be thinking you’re getting out of this one, mister.”

**3:17PM** **  
** **Sarge’s Living Quarters,** **  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

Donut awakens to the sizzle of red meat drifting through the open doorway. He releases a lazy yawn, curling up his toes and stretching out his spine.

He pats for his phone, and upon recalling he’s left it back at his apartment, lifts his head for the alarm clock instead. It’s later than he’d anticipated but Donut drops back down onto the pillow anyway.

It’s nice being wrapped up in Sarge’s duvet like this, so he takes his time waking up fully, enjoying his scent, even if a lot of it is being drowned out by dinner being cooked in the other room.

Sliding up into sitting, Donut yawns one last time before he reaches for Sarge’s dressing gown, about to wrap it around his body before he changes his mind. It’s much too warm. 

His hearing aids are where he left them, Donut sliding them into place familiarly before he gets up. His surroundings now amplified, he follows the sound of the frying pan through the apartment, pace lazy and unhurried.

He finds Sarge at the stove, poking something about with a metal spatula. Donut silently moves closer until he can see what it is: steak and eggs.

It appears he’s been unnoticed. Sarge’s brows stay pinched in the centre, unruly and grey, much like the thinning hair atop his head. There’s a lit cigarette balanced between his teeth, face scratchy with whiskers that compliment the beardburn between Donut’s legs.

When Donut comes up beside him, he’s finally seen, adoring how Sarge’s face eases up all-at-once. It never fails to make Donut feel special.

“Thought we’d agreed to quit,” he says, plucking the smoke from Sarge’s lips and bringing it to his own instead.

“Better than a pack a day,” excuses Sarge, a little red from being caught.

“Mhm?” hums Donut as he exhales, leaning against the counter.

The counters have yet to be cleaned up; shell and torn packages haphazardly discarded for the time being, dripping little blotches of blood and raw eggwhite. The kitchen window is open, but the racket of the streets falls deaf on both pairs of ears, too accustomed to city life.

“Was plannin’ on havin’ myself a cigar tomorrow anyway,” continues Sarge. He flips both sirloins, their juices crackling.

Donut smiles, indulgent to whatever he wants. “That’d be very hot,” he informs. “Like Sylvester Stallone.”

Sarge barks a laugh and Donut leans in to playfully nip his ear.

“Quit it, ya horndog,” he’s scolded. “Plenty a’ time to get randy later.”

Donut giggles, foreverly delighted by his euphemisms. “Alright,” he agrees.

He eyes their meal as Sarge plates it up.

“That sure looks like a lot of calories,” Donut points out.

“Good,” says Sarge, bumping past to the table. “That boney ass a’ yours needs a little fattening up.”

It doesn’t take much for Donut to give into the playful, thinly veiled encouragement to just shut up and _eat_. He takes a seat and cuts into his steak, drowning it in runny yolk before he pushes it into his mouth, and boy is it good after a week of dieting. Sarge isn’t too far behind, having taken a quick detour to the fridge for a couple of beers.

“I hope Wash comes tomorrow,” says Donut as Sarge pops the caps off their bottles.

“I bet. You’ve sure taken a liking to him, huh?” replies Sarge, sounds a little jealous.

“He’s a sweet guy,” says Donut, pretends like he doesn't hear. “I think he’ll fit right in.”

“That right?”

“Yeah. It’d be a shame for him to keep keeping to himself, don’t you think?”

“Hm. Wouldn’t worry about that after what I overheard.”

At the promise of gossip, Donut’s eyes light up. “Overheard what?”

“Tucker,” replies Sarge, acting like he isn’t just as invested as Donut is. “Asking him out like a dumbass.”

“ _What?_ ” exclaims Donut, sitting up. “When was this?”

“Last week.”

“And you’re only telling me this _now_?”

“Didn’t be seeming relevant.”

“Absolutely was! Is!” argues Donut. He pouts. “Why didn’t Tucker tell me?”

“Probably cause he knew you’d start your meddlin’,” teases Sarge.

“I don’t meddle.” Donut pouts harder.

Sarge laughs. “Course you do. That heart a’ yours is too big for your own good.”

That cheers Donut up. “Good thing you’re here to keep an eye on me then,” he replies.

“Sure is.”

“Yup.” Donut smiles downard, wide and smitten, cutting another, neat slab. “This is really good, by the way. Your meat’s always my favourite.”

Sarge smirks. “I bet.”

**6:00PM** ****  
**Sarge’s Living Quarters,** **  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

“Donut!”

“Yeah?” he calls back from the sink.

“Bring back another bud.”

Donut takes another mouthful of water, pouring the rest down the drain and leaving the glass upturned on the rack. He heads for the fridge, pulling open the bottom draw where Sarge keeps his booze, fishing out a bottle. He uses the magnetic bottle opener to uncap it, smiling briefly at the photograph of himself Sarge had silently stuck beside it last month.

He wanders back to the couch, pressing the beer into Sarge’s waiting hand.

“Thanks,” he says.

He juts out a leg for him, but Donut doesn’t sit on it, instead sinks between them. He slips his arms around his waist, resting his head against Sarge’s soft middle, Sarge carding a hand into his hair and flipping through the channels idly. 

Donut is tempted by the idea of unhooking his aids and existing there for a few hours, content and full, having his hair petted. He knows better though. Knows they need to have this conversation.

He looks up, chin resting flat against Sarge’s wife beater. “Baby?”

Sarge’s eyes may stay on the set, but his calloused touch slides to the back of Donut’s neck in acknowledgement, cupping there. “Hm?”

A mild chill of pleasure unravels down Donut’s spine. He sets himself back on track, doesn’t allow himself to be distracted. “I want you to promise me something.”

That garners Sarge’s grey eyes. His thumb brushes baby hairs. “What’s that?”

He nips it in the bud. “That if he starts turning up again, you’re not gonna do anything stupid.”

Donut watches a shiver go over Sarge’s hackles, watches him control it. “After what he gon’ an’ put you through,” he says, a hair's breadth away from seething, “he don’t get to come ‘round here—”

“I know,” soothes Donut, appreciates Sarge’s intense, immediate protection more than he’ll ever be able to express. “But you getting yourself in bother isn’t gonna help any, now is it? You gave me such a fright today.”

“Dirtbag needs a fright,” argues Sarge, but Donut reads his guilt.

“He’d press charges,” points out Donut. “You know he would. He’d love the excuse. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

Sarge is silent. He scowls as he twirls one of Donut’s blonde curls around a thick digit.

“And what would happen to this place if you did end up getting locked up, huh? We need you— _I_ need you.”

Sarge eases slightly.

“Promise me,” pushes Donut. He shifts up onto his knees. “Promise.”

“Alright,” grumbles Sarge. “I promise. Ya happy?”

Grinning, Donut melts back down. “Yeah. I’m happy.”

Sarge nods, averting his gaze after giving Donut’s cheek a few pats.

“I love you,” says Donut.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Sarge.


	9. Reds & Blues

**23 Days Remaining** **  
****02:10PM** **  
****Tucker & Junior’s Place,** **  
****BloodGulch Apartments**

“ _More_?” Tucker feigns exasperation, palms slick with coconut oil.

Junior bounces on his chair and points at the paint bottles with a little more fervency, secured in place by Tucker’s kind grip on his hair. Smiling, Tucker moves his hands familiarly with the movement to prevent tugging, gliding moisture into the next section of hair once he gets the opportunity. 

“Alright, alright, little man,” he says. “Stay still just a sec.”

As obedient as ever, Junior does his best. He holds his upper body tense, but the pent-up energy escapes through swinging legs anyway, although he isn’t scolded for it like he would be at school.

“Alright.” Tucker wipes the excess oil off into his sweatpants. “Which one do you want more of? Blue? Red? Yellow? Green—?”

Junior cuts him off with a fast nod at the last option.

“Green? Okay, green it is.” Tucker retrieves the bottle and gives it a shake, dollops another blob into the corresponding section. He stops just before it overflows into the next compartment; an ice cube tray making do as a makeshift pallet.

Going up onto his knees, Juniors reaches out grabby hands to help Tucker squirt it again.

Tucker laughs. “How much green does one dinosaur need?”

Junior grins, only satisfied once it has filled a quarter of the tray with lime. 

The paint’s cap screwed back on tight (Tucker knows better than to leave it open after years of spillages) he returns to unravelling Junior’s twists. 

Hair care goes its smoothest when Junior’s focus is elsewhere, Tucker taking the bristles of their hairbrush back to the crown of his head, working mostly from muscle memory. He’ll leave it free for the weekend. Maybe for the rest of the week, too, if he can’t find the energy to style it tomorrow. Tucker doesn’t care what Junior’s bitch of a teacher has to say about it. She can imply it’s as unpresentable as she likes. She doesn’t know shit about anything.

Paintbrush back in hand, Junior is already busy swooping green onto a new sheet of printer paper. Simmons had snuck them a couple stacks from the office a couple weeks ago. That morning alone Junior had gone already through about half of them; finished paintings scattered everywhere, Junior’s front blotchy with colour.

A knock interrupts Tucker just as he scoops out another soft thimbleful of coconut oil. Massaging it into Junior’s locks, he says, “They always pick the best moments, huh, J?”

Junior, of course, doesn’t respond.

Already, the door handle jigs and the knocking grows impatient. It’s all Tucker needs to identify who it is.

“Chill out, dude, I’m coming!” he yells over his shoulder, rubs the leftover residue off into his sweats again.

He leaves Junior to his painting, too hyper-focused to care who’s at the door.

A peek through the eyehole confirms Tucker is correct. It’s Church, and the millisecond the door is open, he says, 

“I need a phone charger.”

“And where the fuck have you been?” replies Tucker.

“Out of town,” says Church. “Now gimme your charger, my phone’s about to die.”

“I would have thought it _was_ dead considering you’ve been radio silent all week,” says Tucker.

Church rolls his eyes. “I was busy.”

“Oh, yeah?” Tucker crosses his arms. “Busy-out-of-town doing what?”

Church mirrors the stance. “What the fuck is this? An interrogation? It’s nothing to fucking do with you, but I was at my girlfriend’s place.”

“Your girlfriend’s?” says Tucker, incredulous. “Since when do you have a girlfriend?”

“Since last fucking week.” Church’s nostrils flare. “I told you me and Allison worked things out.”

“Fuck, dude, I didn’t think you were actually serious about that.”

“And what the fuck does that mean, cocksucker?”

“Whatever.” Tucker isn’t in the mood for an argument. “What is it you’re after, again?”

Church narrows his eyes. “Charger.”

Huffing, Tucker shoves the door open wider. “Come the fuck in then.”

He’s a lot less worn down than the last time Tucker saw him; trimmed beard and combed hair. Church’s go-tos are polos and jeans, and today’s no different, albeit with shorts due to the hot weather, Tucker noticing his pale nose is a little sunburned.

He follows Tucker through the dingy flat.

“Hey, kid,” says Church once they’re in the kitchen.

Junior doesn’t even spare him a glance, too focused on his work. Church has never been his favourite amongst Tucker’s friends. They all know better than to force Junior into a greeting, so his ignorance remains unspoken of by either of them. Tucker unplugs his charger from the wall.

“He’s sure been busy,” Church continues, gestures at the colourful paper everywhere. “What are all these for?”

“He just felt like painting,” answers Tucker. He’d given up a long time ago trying to unpick Junior’s motivations. Going with the flow made both of their lives a lot easier. He presses the bundle of wire into Church’s waiting, open hand. “You hanging out?”

“I would, man, but Tex is waiting on me.”

A little dampened, Tucker says, “She’s here?”

“Yeah,” says Church, stepping backwards. “See you at the BBQ.”

Tucker doesn’t get the chance to respond because Church is already walking away. “Asshole,” he mutters, fluffing out the free side of Junior’s hair.

“By the way,” Church yells as an afterthought from the hall, “don’t think I haven’t forgotten about the bet!”

**  
****02:33PM** **  
****Church & Caboose’s Rooms,** **  
****BloodGulch Apartments**

The door sticks like a stubborn friend and Church has to give it a forceful slam to get it to shut, irritated that Sarge still hasn’t gotten around to fixing it.

“Church!” greets Caboose over the rapid fire of bullets from the TV. “Don’t be so mean to doors.”

“Shut up, Caboose,” says Church, tossing his keys into the bowl.

The sitting room remains in the chaotic state they had left it last night; empty pizza boxes, cans and cartons. Tex doesn’t look up from her match, lounged back with one leg over the armrest, her thumbs gliding effortlessly between the joycons and the buttons. 

“Get, get, you dumb-fuck dog.” Church shoos Sheila from beside her, the dog groaning as he shifts her old bones, retreating toward her owner.

“Tucker said no, didn’t he?” Caboose pets Sheila’s lolling head. “It’s okay, Church, he doesn’t let me use his things either.”

Church waves the phone charger very obviously in his hand.

Caboose gasps. “What is the secret word to Tucker’s stuff?”

“I’m-a-huge-fucking-moron,” replies Church, already leaning over to plug it into the extension cord.

“Don’t be an ass.” Tex doesn't look up, adding another kill to her counter. “He’ll believe you.”

“Who’ll believe what?” pipes up Caboose sweetly.

With a snort, Tex throws a grenade around a corner that blows up the camper crouching there just as the match ends.

“Whoa!” exclaims Caboose, immediately distracted. “You are super good at the shooting game, cowgirl lady!”

“I know.” Texas smiles, shifting her ponytail from one shoulder to the other.

“Show-off,” accuses Church, settling into her side.

“Sounds like something a jealous loser would say,” says Tex. She gives Church’s ear an affectionate tug, crookening his glasses.

Church does his best at containing his smittenness, but isn’t very successful. There’s something special about Allison that’s hard for him to put into words. Someone who can take the heat of a good bicker without boo-hooing to all their friends about what a terrible boyfriend he is.

He likes everything about her; how she stands a whole foot above him, her brash confidence, how clear she made it from day one that she doesn’t give a single flying fuck what anybody thinks of her, Church included. Fresh-faced and impatient. Knows exactly who she is and what she wants. It’s contagious and Church is already addicted. He finally understands what his dad meant all these years when he’d say he knew he was going to marry his mom the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

“I want chips,” says Caboose. “Who else wants chips? Do you want chips, cowgirl lady? Do you want chips, Church? I will get us a bowl of chips.”

He’s already up and out of his seat before either of them can reply, Shelia grumbling at being disturbed again, and Tex watches him go with a fond bemusement.

Another thing Church has never had. Allison’s the first girlfriend he’s ever had who’s accepted Caboose as a part of his life without even a hint of hostility or bewilderment. Caboose often ends up being the deal-breaker for many of Church’s relationships. Not that Caboose is privy to that.

“By the way, Church, where has our magic oven gone?” Caboose inquires upon his return, setting a bowl of salted Lays onto the coffee table.

“The what?” Tex shuts down their console, swaps her controller for a handful of them.

“He means the microwave,” explains Church. Then, back to Caboose: “And, like I told you last week, I had to throw it out.”

Caboose gasps. “What? Why? Think of the popcorn, Church!”

“Because you broke it, moron,” reminds Church.

“I did?”

With a pinch to the bridge of his nose, Church sighs. He looks up at the peeling paintwork of their ceiling and forcibly pushes away the frustration. Successfully unwound, he says, “It doesn’t matter. We can buy a new one once Casanova boy across the hall pays up.”

“He owes you money?” says Tex between crunching.

“He will soon,” Church smirks. “When he loses.”

Caboose brightens. “Can I play?”

“No. It’s not a game, it’s a bet.”

“And what is this bet exactly?” asks Tex. She releases her hair from its bobble, dirty blonde hair spilling down.

“Alright, listen to this,” says Church. “Last weekend Tucker’s running his mouth all night he can wriggle his way into anyone's pants, right? All ‘cause some chick gave him her number in Roosters.

“At first I’m like, whatever, it’s _Tucker_ , right? But then it gets to, like, two a.m. and he still won’t shut the fuck up about being able to fuck whoever he pleases, so I told him, ‘Fine, prove it then, asshole. I’ll pay you three hundred bucks to fuck the apartment’s designated, creepy loner by the end of the month.’ and of course he agrees, mainly because he’s fucked, but also because Tucker will do just about anything to prove a point.”

Alison sucks in air through her teeth. “Three hundred’s a lot of money if he manages it.”

“Yeah, I know. But I also know Tucker, and knowing Tucker, he’ll end up feeling sorry for the guy and won’t be able to go through with it.”

“Who?” broke in Caboose.

“Guy next door, dude. The one that always looks ten seconds away from a nervous breakdown—you know, Cat Guy. The guy that moved in with the cats. Grey-hoodie guy.”

“Ohhhh,” extends Caboose once it clicks. He nods to himself. “He is sad. He cries sometimes. I can hear him at bedtime in my room.”

The announcement plummets the mood. Church awkwardly side-glances, finds Allison looking at him in exactly the same way. 

“Anyway,” Church breaks the silence as nonchalantly as possible. “That’s the guy.”

“He doesn’t sound like the most stable person to be fucking with,” says Tex.

“It’ll be fine,” waves off Church. “Not like he’s ever gonna find out, Tucker gonna give up soon. Besides, he’ll probably be happy to get some attention, if he even swings that way.”

“Like at the park?” asks Caboose.

“No, dumbass. Like whether he likes deep-throating dick or eating out pussy.”

“Ah,” says Caboose in enlightenment as Tex cringes. “That makes sense. Thank-you, Church.”

“I’m breaking up with you,” informs Texas.

**05:45PM  
** **The Community Garden,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

An array of garden furniture, the odd kitchen chair, had already filled up outside by the time Tucker and Junior make their way out there.

They greeted with the sounds of Grif and Simmons bickering over the best amount of coal needed to fuel the grill, looking casual in mid-cut shorts and khakis, Donut and Lopez lost in some intense conversation by the blueberrie bushes. Donut, predictably, has a shameless amount of leg on show.

Catching sight of Donut, Junior bounces past Sarge, who is tipping a big bag of ice cubes into the cooler, towards him.

“Why, hello, Mr. Cutie-Pie!” Donut pauses mid-conversation to greet Junior. He lifts him up for a proper cuddle, a kiss to his forehead for good measure, which Junior beams at, letting out a little squeal.

Lopez nods from the sidelines.

“Hey, Tucker.” Donut smiles as Tucker finally catches up.

“Hey, guys,” he replies, sunglasses protecting him from the dying sun, dreads bundled up atop his head.

Small talk is brief, mainly comprising work and Junior, and before long they’re all sat down on well-loved lawn chairs. Donut rattles through a plastic bucket of CDs whilst Lopez wrestles them out some beers from a six-pack. Junior stays close by in the grass, hunting for bugs.

“Backstreet Boys?” proposes Donut.

“Do I look like a pre-teen girl?” says Tucker, popping his drink’s tab.

“Sí,” interrupts Lopez, and Donut laughs.

“Shut up.” Tucker grins.

They settle on the same mix tape that usually gets played, which drowns out some of Grif and Simmons, who have now moved onto arguing over the best way to inflate the paddle pool. The pretense is that it’s for Junior, but Tucker has his doubts. Sarge has disappeared, no doubt inside prepping the meat for the grill.

“Hey, Junior.” Donut looks up from his phone. “You want a popsicle, sweetie?”

Junior’s eyes shine and Donut hops up to fetch the box.

The last rays of the sun feel good on Tucker’s face. He’s dog tired after a five-day week load and would rather not think about the next one waiting for him just around the corner. At least a bonus of having Junior means Tucker isn’t very often rota’d in on weekends. He doesn’t know how everyone else does it.

“A strawberry pop for my strawberry pop,” coos Donut, handing Junior his treat with a flourish. He straightens up, Junior looping an arm around Donut’s leg and sticking the ice lolly in his mouth. “Either of you want one?”

Before either Tucker or Lopez can answer, something else distracts him.

“Oh my gosh, he actually came.” Donut dumps the popsicle box on Tucker and waves both arms above his head. “Wash! Wash! Over here!”

All eyes instinctively move to the outburst and Washington, failing to hide his fluster, raises back an awkward hand.

Tucker gulps so forcefully bubbles burn at the back of his nose. Wash cleaned up better than he would have ever imagined. There wasn’t a ragged piece of clothing in sight; a clean t-shirt smooth against his chest, haphazard hair combed through, and upon approaching them, a little more light to the eyes.

“Hello,” he greets Donut first, and Tucker isn’t sure why he feels so frustrated that he isn’t the one Wash’s gaze goes to.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” cries back Donut, throwing his arms around him.

A fish out of water, Wash unsurely gives him a few gentle back pats.

“And I’m so glad to see you out of that eyesore of a hoodie,” continues Donut, tongue-in-cheek as he gives Washington’s bicep a little squeeze.

Smirking, Wash bats his hand away, muttering something about leaving his arms alone.

What? Tucker is lost. Since when are Wash and Donut this friendly? How did he miss this? He glances about to see if anyone else is having a similar reaction. No. Just him, it seems. Why is this bothering him so much? Of course. The bet. That must be it. There was no other possible reason he feels so put out.

Donut begins introductions. “Wash, this is Lopez. He lives on the red floor, too. And you know Tucker, of course.” He flashes Tucker a wink he doesn’t understand.

“Hola,” Lopez speaks up first, offering Wash a can. 

“Oh, uh.” Washington takes it. “Thanks.”

Then they all look at Tucker, and he realises it’s his turn to talk.

“Hey, man!” he blurts, much too abruptly to be casual, and immediately wants to hide his face behind the ice-cream box.

Washington’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Hey, Tucker.”

“How’s it going?” Tucker leans hard into being nonchalant to save it, opening his legs a little wider, slinging an elbow behind himself onto the back of the chair.

“It’s going,” replies Wash, his beer hissing as he cracks it open.

Something sticky grabs at Tucker’s knee. He looks down to find his son, having never been so thankful to be interrupted by his clinginess. He hauls him up by his armpits, settling Junior sideways on lap, where he goes back to nibbling up his popsicle.

“Hello, Junior.” Wash makes the effort to acknowledge him, which, to Tucker’s surprise, Junior smiles at, obviously having taken a liking to him.

He finds the open chair beside Tucker to sit in, and the bare, veined forearm Washington drapes over the armrest is immediately, involuntarily distracting. Thank God Tucker is still wearing his sunglasses.

“Whew,” exclaims Donut, fanning his face. “Can you believe how hot this summer’s been?”

“Yeah, I can,” replies Tucker, discreetly ogling at the way Wash’s arm flexes as he takes a sip of beer. “Try living on the floor with the broken AC. You’d think Sarge would have gotten around to fixing it by now. The fans are shit.”

“Oh?” Donut cocks his head to one side like he does when he’s about to say something bitchy. “Well, maybe if you and Church and Caboose actually paid your rent on time, he’d have the money for the parts.”

Tucker feels Washington’s eyes on him. “Fuck off, Donut.”

Donut smirks, uncrossing and recrossing his legs.

The observer, Wash simply sips his beer as they return to chatting, but a hypervigilant awareness of his presence lingers in the back of Tucker’s mind. He adjusts as Junior shifts up onto his knees to peer over his shoulder, no doubt interested in his uncles’ theatrics in getting the inflatable pool up and running.

“Hey, Simmons, look! The kid’s here!” exclaims Grif, pushing unwashed hair off his forehead as he approaches. Junior makes grabby hands and Grif hauls him up over Tucker’s shoulder. “Since when were you guys out here?” 

“At _least_ half an hour, man,” says Tucker, narrowly avoiding a shoe to the face.

“Oof!” huffs Grif, clearly having miscalculated how heavy Junior was going to be. He settles him on his hip, anyway. “Really? Could’ve come said hi.”

“Hard to when you and nerdzilla over there are always on the edge of a blowout.” Tucker grins at his own statement. “Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

“You think anyone who can count past ten is a nerd,” defends Simmons, coming up from behind his partner. He gives Junior a smile and smooths back his wild hair.

“Anyone who studied programming is a nerd,” bites back Tucker. He turns. “Wash.” 

Washington is a little startled at being addressed. 

“This is Junior’s uncle, Grif,” Tucker introduces. “And this is Simmons, Grif’s carer—”

“Hey!” cuts in Grif, Donut giggling behind his hand.

“—they live on the red floor. Guys, this is Washington.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Simmons is polite.

“Hey, man,” Grif greets, joking, “I was starting to think Sarge was lying about getting a new tenant.”

“Nope.” Wash laughs awkwardly. “I’m real.”

Squirming himself up a little higher, Junior gets Grif’s attention back on the sagging plastic they’d left behind.

“Yeah, kid, it’ll be ready soon,” placates Grif.

“I’ll go up and get your swimming trunks once it’s up, okay?” says Tucker.

“I can take him now, if you want,” chips in Simmons. “He’ll probably want to help us fill it and that way he won’t get his clothes wet.”

“Yeah, man, that’d be great,” agrees Tucker, and as an afterthought, “That okay with you, little dude?”

Junior looks unsure, but Tucker wrestles out his keys and tosses them at Simmons anyway, who catches them fumbly. 

“We’re not going anywhere,” he tells him. “You like spending time Uncle Dick, right?”

Junior nods.

“Why don’t you show him all the paintings you made whilst you’re up there?”

“We can stop by my apartment and pick up my Gameboy, too,” Simmons tacks on a bribe.

Washington glances about out of the corner of Tucker’s eye, no doubt confused why everyone was holding their breath for Junior’s answer, lacking the context of the past five years.

Tentative, Junior nods again, being let down and taking Simmons’ hand. Everyone smiles.

Tucker keeps an eye out as Junior and Simmons head back the way they’d come, wanting to make sure he was there to give Junior any reassurance he may look for, which he does, his little face glancing back one, twice, _thrice_ before it finally disappears back inside.

Grif plonks down into an open chair, directs at Tucker, “You gonna hog all that ice-cream all night?”

Tucker rolls his eyes and passes over the box. “Just take the whole thing, you fat fuck.”

“I will,” says Grif proudly, paw hand already rummaging around inside of it.

“Hey, guys, look,” chimes in Donut. “Isn’t that Church’s new girlfriend?”

Eyes slide to the trio making their appearance; Caboose, Church and his girlfriend. Caboose’s dog, Sheila, is in tow, too, already squatting into the grass to go potty.

“Yeah,” Tucker confirms. “That’s Allison.”

“Hello!” booms Caboose, lumbering towards them with a familiar swing to his step. “Oh, wow! Church, look! Cat man is here!”

Squashing the brief thrill of panic he’s about to be exposed, Tucker hides it with a grin and nudges Washington’s arm, who looks back with a confused kind of expression. 

“Good luck,” he says solemnly, which does nothing but spook Wash further.

In a flash, Caboose has arrived, his big brown eyes betraying his harmless nature despite his towering size. “You’re cat man, right? With the cats?”

“Uh…”

“I knew it! Church, Church! It’s him!” Caboose whips back around and throws out a hand for Washington to shake. “It is nice to meet you. I am Caboose.” 

“Washington.” Trying to be polite, Wash lets him jerk his hand up-and-down in a crushing grip. “It’s nice to—”

“That over there is my best friend, Church,” Caboose steam-rolls ahead. “And that is my best friend’s girlfriend, Texas.” He laughs a little. “It’s a funny story! We call her Texas because she’s from Texas! She sounds funny.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know Tucker.” Caboose finally unhands him, gives Tucker a little squint. “I don’t like him. He steals Church at weekends.”

Tucker snorts, unaffected. “Yeah. No love lost here, either, buddy.”

Huffing, Caboose pointedly turns and begins rambling about how Junior is much nicer, that if he had to pick a second best friend, it would be Sheila, and requested Wash promise he could meet his kitty-cats soon. _Just keep them away from Sheila! She might think they’re tasty!_

It doesn’t take long for Sheila to re-take his attention, bidding him a cheerful farewell, “Okay! Talk to you soon, Washingtub!”

Slowly, Washington looks at Tucker, a haunted look in his eyes. Tucker barks a laugh, tinged with relief that he hopes isn’t audible to Wash. It’s hard not to be when he’d just been so on edge everything was about to come out, only able to breathe again now that Caboose had left the right things unsaid (although the bet feels anything but right.)

Tenterhooks aside, getting to watch Caboose being let wild on the uninitiated remains one of the best uses of keeping him around. His predictable over-familiarity had gone over about as well as a freight train smashing through a brick wall.

“Fun guy, am I right, Wash?” says Tucker. “Or should I say… Washingtub?”

Even now Washington is visibly still recovering, uses alcohol as a balm. “Please inform me now of anyone else I need to be prepared for this evening”

“Oh, man,” says Tucker. “Just wait until Donut gets three drinks in.”

Simmons returns with Junior in tow, Sarge not too far behind them. After a quick check-in with his father, Junior fixates on helping his uncles get the pool whilst Sarge enlists Lopez into helping him with the grilling. Church keeps his distance for the time being, which Tucker has mixed feelings about, gravitating over to Donut, to whom he introduces Allison.

Donut is more than happy to receive her, alight with the opportunity to make a new friend, although the gossip-rights that come with getting to know her first are no doubt a part of it.

For better or worse, Washington and he are left alone together in the surrounding hubbub.

**06:30PM  
** **The Community Garden,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

By the time Junior is splashing around, food is being served up. It’s a little more underdone than Tucker prefers it, but that’s expected with Sarge being the one manning the grill.

Simmons and Grif take on the responsibility of watching Junior; Grif actively splashing along with broad feet, Simmons perched in a chair close by with his nose in his Pokédex. Tucker keeps an eye on him regardless, giving Junior waves of reassurance whenever he’s searched for.

He and Wash don’t have many topics to cycle through, but their conversation still flows better than usual thanks to the lubrication of beer. Tucker uses the crutch of Junior for most of it, doesn’t have many other topics at his disposal those days. Washington doesn’t seem to mind, however. In fact, he’s engaged. Tucker, too. So much so that he mildly startled when they’re interrupted by Donut.

“Well, aren’t you two getting cozy,” he says, plonking down with a paper plate and a refill. He flashes Tucker a knowing look that, much like the earlier wink, confuses him. If Donut knew about his and Church’s bet, Tucker knows him well enough to know he wouldn’t be happy about it. He plays it safe and doesn’t comment, but it turns out he doesn’t have to, as Donut is already continuing, “Sarge is putting on another hot dog on for J, by the way.”

“I don’t think he’ll be able to eat another,” says Tucker.

“I guess I’ll have to gobble it up, then,” says Donut, pressing a slice of pickle against his pink tongue. He chews it up with a sigh. “So much for my diet.”

“What are you training for?” asks Wash.

“Being hot as fuck,” says Donut without missing a beat.

Washington throws his head back with a deep laugh and God damn, has he always been this fucking hot? Loose is a good look on him.

“Hey, Allison!” Donut gets her and Church’s attention. “Come meet Wash and Tucker.”

Their approach gives Tucker bubbles of anxiousness. He isn’t sure when it had changed, but he frets more over Washington’s hurt feelings rather than the loss of the money if they set the cat out of the bag. He needs to talk to Church ASAP. He doesn’t think he can do this anymore. Tucker shoots him a look to keep his mouth shut, which Church just smirks at, the smarmy fucker.

“Howdy,” drawls Alison, and she’s just how Tucker remembers her; tall, bare-faced and built like a brick house. There was a fierce beauty to her that intimidated Tucker, a difficult feat to accomplish.

“Hey, Texas,” he says, tipping his can at her. “You remember me?”

She looks him up and down, pops a hip into her hand. “Sure, I do. Tucker The Fucker.”

Beside him, Wash snickers.

“That’s me, baby!” fires back Tucker, doing his best to make the embarrassment his bitch. It works. Mostly. 

Texas cocks a brow.

“And this here’s Washington,” says Tucker, and immediately regrets his instinct to switch topics.

“Hello,” says Wash, a touch rigid at the unfamiliar face, although less icy than he’d been when Tucker had first introduced himself.

“Nice to meet you,” says Texas. “They stuck you with a state for a name, too, huh?”

“No, that would have been my father. It’s a family name.”

“Huh.” She tilts to Church slightly. “So this is the apartment’s crazy cat lady you were telling me about.”

Panic flashes hot in Tucker’s vitals.

Before Church can explain himself, Wash is already replying, “I think you, uh, need to own more than three to qualify for that position. That, and I have the wrong parts. I won’t deny the crazy part, though.”

Cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol, Texas laughs. Donut and Church, too. Tucker would have probably joined in, also, if his heart wasn’t hammering so fearfully fast.

“Hey, Wash,” says Donut once he’s recovered. “Have you even met Church properly yet?”

Wash gives a non-affirmative.

Church takes his cue. “Sorry about that. It’s nice to meet you, man. I’m Leonard, but since none of these losers ever matured past high school, you’ll hear them calling me ‘Church.’”

“Hey, asshole,” interrupts Tucker. “I’m more mature than you are! I have a kid!”

“Anyone can stick their dick in a girl, Tucker.” Church insults with calculated precision. “At least I have a steady job. Besides, you’re really gonna look me in the face and tell me Junior’s harder work than that.”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder to where Caboose is currently rolling around in the grass with Sheila.

Tucker snorts. “At least you can actually hold a conversation with him.”

“I keep telling you we should find an ASL class,” says Donut. “It only makes sense, right? Besides, my hearing’s got, like, five years left tops, so I gotta learn it, too.”

Wash signs along as he reveals, “I can teach you, if you’d like.”

Tucker’s eyes widen; another skill he hadn’t expected Washington to possess.

Just as surprised, Donut claps together his hands at the feat. “You know ASL?!”

Wash goes a little sheepish. “Yes. I… learnt it for a boyfriend.”

“That's so awesome!” Donut exclaims. “Can you teach us? I'll pay you.”

Wash shook his head. “You don't have to pay me—it's not like I have anything better to do.”

Donut is alight with enthusiasm, heightened by alcohol. “Show me how to say my name! I wanna learn that first…”

Beside him, Church says lowly by his ear, “For a boyfriend, huh? Maybe your odds aren’t as bad as I thought.”

“Shut the fuck up,” hisses back Tucker.

**10:27PM  
** **The Community Garden,  
** **BloodGulch Apartments**

The later it becomes, the heavier the drinks flow.

Pleasantly buzzed from the position he’s maintained most of the night, Wash quietly takes in the scenery as he polishes off what he has decided will be his last beer before he heads inside.

The paddling pool has been long since taken over by Grif, Junior nodding off on Tucker’s knee, bundled in heavy blankets. Caboose is not too far behind, nodding off in his seat with Sheila tucked around his ankles, struggling to keep his eyes open. A little past nine, Sarge had put together a makeshift fire with the remaining charcoal, most of the chairs now circled around it.

Donut is weeping with laughter at some story Church is re-telling, having orbited Sarge once he’d finally sat down, cigar between his teeth. Tex had just gone off up to bed, claiming she had an early bus to catch tomorrow, which Wash had internally wished her luck with based on how intoxicated she’d gotten herself.

“Aren’t you cold?” he hears Simmons ask behind him.

“No,” he hears Grif reply.

“I guess you do have the insulation,” chides Simmons, promptly earning himself a splash Wash glances over his shoulder just in time to see.

Something nudges his arm. It’s Lopez.  he laughs, swaying in place.

Although the exact translation is lost on him, Wash gets the gist it’s mean-spirited, returns a vague smile.

Crushing his can, Lopez accepts it with a nod, drags himself upright to fetch another from the cooler. It amazes Wash he can still walk.

“I love him so much,” slurs Tucker from his other side. He’s rocking Junior’s sleeping body, wholly focused on his peaceful face, peeking out. Washington has never seen him like this before, so besotted and gentle, cradling his son’s form with such intense care. 

It warms a part of Wash’s heart he had been certain had died with Meta. “I know,” he says. Can tell just from his face alone.

Tucker’s smile grows wider before it drains away, brown eyes going distant, his rocking slowing to a stop.

Tucker’s unease discomfits him.

“Hey, Wash?”

The fire crackles, and on the other side of it, Donut howls with more sweet giggles, propped up on Sarge’s shoulder.

Wash turns back to Tucker. “Yeah?”

He doesn’t reply at first, tucks the fabric of the blanket under Junior’s toes instead. Then, quietly, “Do you think I’m a bad person?”

Unsure what Tucker means, Wash holds his tongue for the time being. The summer night’s breeze whooshes around above their heads. Donut is still laughing. Grif and Simmons are still bickering. Caboose yawns noisily.

“Forget it,” says Tucker. “It’s dumb—”

“No.” Wash’s words hold sobriety. “You’re not a bad person.”

It doesn’t seem to comfort Tucker like he hoped it would. He laughs humorlessly instead, a stray dreadlock spilling out over his cheek he doesn’t put back. “How can you say that? How can you be so sure?”

Washington considers.

There’s a lot of things he can say, but there’s also a lot he doesn’t want to. Being a good person—to Agent Washington, at least—is an abstract concept. He’s seen evil in so many forms that some nights it’s dizzying to comprehend just how much human beings can do to one another. How much he himself is capable of.

He knows what evil looks like, and it’s not Tucker. In fact, Wash is the one closer to bad than Tucker ever will be. Not that Tucker needs to know that. Not if Washington can help it.

Eventually he says, “Just trust me.”

It appears to be the wrong thing to have said, because Tucker only looks sadder, avoiding Washington’s direction again. 

In Tucker’s arms, Junior stirs with a restless whine. “It’s alright, Daddy’s here.” Tucker lifts the squirming child up, letting the blanket fall around his shoulders. Junior blinks about blearily a few times before he sags back down into his father’s shoulder.

Washington opens his mouth to speak, but doesn’t get there.

“I think I’m gonna get him to bed,” Tucker says, getting to his feet, Junior’s legs straddling his waist.

“Probably best.” Wash senses he has overstepped. “He, uh, looks pretty tired.”

“Yeah.” Tucker’s smile is small compared to the one’s Washington has grown accustomed to. “...See you around, man.”

“Good night,” wishes Wash. He re-settles into the role of observer as Tucker goes to say goodbye to the rest of his friends, picking at the label of his bottle.

Wash senses the shiver of a gaze upon him, and turns instinctively towards it, catching Leonard Church amid a stare. He breaks away abruptly after being detected, fake-coughing into his fist, and Washington’s brows twist together.

Before he has too long to ponder what that was about, Lopez is back, offering a fresh beer. He’s about to decline, but changes his mind. The hangover will be just as grim, regardless.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](https://richie-tozier-is-my-eboy.tumblr.com)


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